


Kingdom Locked Up

by soliloqui



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Age Difference, Angst, Anxiety Disorder, Aromantic Character, Aromantic Otabek Altin, Asexual Character, Communication, Concussions, Demisexual Yurio, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fever, Fluff, Getting Together, Growing Up, Hair Braiding, Happy Ending, Healing, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Neglect, M/M, Multi, Panic Attacks, Pining, Season 1 as told by Yurio, Sleepy Cuddles, Slow Burn, Sports Injury, Threesome - M/M/M, and then slowly developing into Viktuurio, because apparently I'm unable to write relationships any differently, like reeeeallly slow, shameless abuse of 'Yurio is a kitten' metaphor, this whole fanfic is one big self-indulgent h/c fest, warning for Yurio's potty mouth
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-31
Updated: 2017-06-02
Packaged: 2018-10-13 09:30:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 42,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10511013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soliloqui/pseuds/soliloqui
Summary: “What?!” he snaps eventually, and at least the piggy has the decency to look sheepish when he’s caught out.Yuuri takes a quick breath and mumbles, “I guess I hadn’t realized you had been such a big part of Viktor’s life, before,” andoh.“Don’t fool yourself, piggy.” Yuri looks away, busying himself with getting a soda even though he has absolutely no reason to have to hide. He’s feeling bitter, not sad. “From the looks of it, I was easy enough to cut out of it.”The moment is broken, and Yuri is proud to say he manages to stay miffed at least until the savory sent of miso soup is wafting through the apartment a few hours later and Yuuri calls him to table.(It might not start with fondness, but familiarity is probably the next best thing.)





	1. Act 1, Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> In which the author takes a little break from final fantasy to write something completely without pressure and expectations and also indulges in her need for queerplatonic kisses and cuddles of her new ot3, Russian Sandwich/Viktuurio <3  
> Unbeta’d.
> 
> WARNING: This fic will contain underage kissing and a polyamorous romantic relationship between a minor (17ys) and a 25/29 year-old. If this is not your thing, you know where the back button is. You’re entitled to having your opinion same way as I am, I’m just not asking for it here.

**Kingdom Locked Up**

**Act 1, Part 1**

  
_Oh, all of these minutes passing, sick of feeling used_  
 _If you wanna break these walls down, you're gonna get bruised_

_~ (Castle – Halsey) ~_

 

It starts with fondness, or at the very least… familiarity.

Not if you’re asking Yuri, mind you. He’d rather die than admit to something quite so sappy. He’s got enough on his plate already to deal with those two lovesick morons, what with picking up his life (or rather the prickly shards of it) after his return from Hasetsu.

Nika meows accusingly when he drags his suitcase through the door of his cold dorm apartment, jumping up on the counter to watch him like the miffed diva she is. Yuri knows he’s owing Mila at least a new purse or a jumper for feeding her the past weeks or the redhead will be utterly insufferable.

( _“You know, the little lady kind of suits you. Shows her claws more often than not, but deep down she’s actually just a ~big~ softie looking for cuddles.”_

_“Shut up, hag!”_

_He’s not a bloody kitten. He’s a tiger, damnit. A fierce, bloodthirsty tiger and he’s gonna_ shred _his competition, just you wait._ )

He drops a stack of mail correspondence on the kitchen counter, full of bills ( _rent, electricity, gas, internet, the vet_ ), letters from his sponsors, likely admonitions from the private institute he’s getting tutored at for skipping his lessons, and uses the freed hand to snatch up his protesting feline queen. Curling up in a ball on the couch (Nika soon submitting to her fate and licking her paws indignantly), Yuri stares at the crumbling plaster of the wall and decidedly does not think about hot springs or Mama Katsuki’s warm food or Yuuko’s encouragements.

Life, unheedingly, goes on.

Faint traces of summer arrive on Russian soil, evident in tentative green buds chasing off the glaze of frost on the shrubbery, in the sound of children screaming in the streets lined with dirty gray slush and the occasional weak ray of sunshine falling through the window front of the unchanging St Petersburg ice rink; but Lilia’s mansion feels just as cold and depressing as his old apartment when he moves in with her.

_Grand-jeté! Pirouette! À la seconde! Encore une fois! Nyet… pas comme ça!_

Yuri loses himself in the strong façade of Miss Baranovskaya’s prima ballerina, like a shield erected around the fragile remains of his body, withering on the inside. He thrives on the absolute control, the self-discipline, the perfectionism of the dance. _Rule number one: Never show your exhaustion to the audience._ It becomes a mantra.

With the old woman’s help, Yuri starts sharpening his skills into a blade made of ice, ruthless, ready to slice his opponents apart with. Who needs Viktor, anyway? Maybe it’s a good thing he got out while he still could. Yuri realizes with a jolt that he had fallen into complacency, feeling secure in the knowledge that Viktor would simply always be around. It wasn’t just the choreography Viktor had promised him – it had been in the easy comradery that they’d shared at the rink, or when Yakov had needled them into sharing hotel rooms, when they’d traveled to competitions together. How Viktor had somehow always put up with his shit, with his moodswings, only reacting to them with that fake 1000-Watt smile of his and a flippant comment.

The disappointment still sharp on his tongue reminds him never to put anyone on a pedestal ever again, never to put his trust where it’s undeserved. It’s a lesson learned, and he tells himself he will move on, in the quiet hours of the morning when Nika is purring soft noises into his ear and the sheets feel suffocating against his skin.

They text.

Mostly it’s Yuuko, asking how the training is going, if he’s eating well, wears warm enough clothes now that he’s back in Russia. He wishes she could stop acting like she cares.

(He wishes he could stop _liking_ it).

He’s eating well enough, following the strict nutritious meal plan Lilia has set him on, and somehow it’s a relief. He knows following this will make sure he stays in top condition, not an ounce of fat to spare, all pure, lithe muscle and strength dressed in beauty, sinews and bones. _Beautiful._ It’s what makes him turn up his nose when he sees Mila stuffing her face with French fries, what makes the slimy protein shake slide down his esophagus without a fuss, what makes something frazzled and ugly settle inside his chest complacently when he sees the meager assortment of vegetables and lean meat on his plate at a long, lonely dining table. The knowledge that _he is strong_ , this is what makes him strong and he’s in _control_. For once in his life.

Occasionally, Viktor writes too. Mostly it’s dorky pictures of Makkachin, Makkachin doing this, Makkachin doing that, Makkachin sticking her tongue out after a bath. He determinedly doesn’t smile at them. Sometimes it’s selfies of the two from when they’re going sight-seeing. One time, a picture of a cat-shaped tea mug they saw that reminded them of him.

Doesn’t matter, he’s still mad at Viktor.

(He saves the picture in his folders and notes down the city and location of the market they saw it at before Yuri can think about it. It doesn’t have anything to do with them, it’s just… a pretty cool mug.)

. . .

_‘Nosebleed on Ice: 2014 Grand Prix Finalist Yuuri Katsuki makes surprising return to skating at Chugoku, Shikoku, and Kyushu Championship with coach Viktor Nikiforov at his side!!! Check out our gallery for more pictures of the – ’_

His phone makes a cracking sound as it connects with the window front, and he distantly hopes he didn’t destroy it (again). Mila has the nerve to ask if he’s jealous.

What in the world is there to be jealous of? The fact that the Japanese fatso gets to be smothered in Viktor’s obnoxious affections?

(…or is it the other way round? Which one would he be jealous _of_?)

Should he be jealous over the fact Katsudon gets to have a five-time consecutive World Champion as a coach without even trying, when said coach had already long since promised himself to somebody else? The fact _he_ gets to keep his own name, when Yuri, who has known Viktor personally – shared a rink with him, even, for years – when Yuri gets to content himself with a cheap, hollow nickname?

No, if anything, he’s mad. Livid.

He won’t follow the feeling to its source, instead uses it to fuel his next run-through of Allegro Appassionato. For once, Lilia’s critical lips stay silent.

. . .

He won’t react. He won’t react. He’s absolutely, totally, _miles_ above this. He won’t –

“Make way, little princess! The king’s coming through!~”

“You _fucking shit-head! I’ll –_ ”

“ _Yuri!_ Play nice!” Yakov grabs him by the sleeve of his team jacket and drags him off before Yuri has the chance to jam his skate up the Canadian bastard’s ass. What a shame.

It wasn’t enough. He’s put his everything into this, worked himself to the bone, towards his absolute limit and beyond, worked until his skin was ripping and his toes bleeding and crooked, hips permanently bruised from collisions with the ice and lungs burning with a lack of oxygen, and it still wasn’t enough. He’s never going to be enough.

He clenches his teeth until he tastes copper as he’s standing on the podium (not the top, always _below_ , fucking _why can’t he –_ ) and vows to throw himself into training even harder.

When Yuuko, Katsudon and the old man shower him in congratulatory texts, he leaves them unanswered.

(A few days later though, he sends Yuuko a picture of his cat leisurely napping in the afternoon light after having gotten a row of belly rubs, just so that, you know… it’s not like he’s _ungrateful_ , there’s just really nothing to congratulate _on_.)

He phones with his grandpa later that day, who is happy about his second place, and Yuri doesn’t have the heart to argue.

“ _Such a good boy… you ought’a be proud of yourself, you hear me?_ ”

“ _Yes… grandpa._ ” The rough, familiar sound of Russian is soothing, somehow, to his frayed and raw edges.

He doesn’t even know how the topic of his mum comes up, but Yuri can already feel the apology coming long before his grandpa even has the time to open his mouth.

“ _…I’m sorry, Yuratchka. I haven’t heard much from her, these days._ ”

It’s fine.

Yuri knows she wasn’t watching. It’s fine.

Just wanted to make sure she hadn’t kicked the bucket yet, really.

Off-season is always draining in that he makes no money, but that doesn’t mean his mum needs less. He mentally starts calculating how much more he has to spare, GPF, the nationals, how long he can hold over depending on which medals he brings home. There’s sponsoring for sure, but after the double coaching fees and travel costs, there’s barely any left of that. He quietly says his goodbyes on the phone and laces up his shoes for a jog. Maybe if he makes himself tired enough, he’ll be able to sleep through the night.

. . .

_A black shroud, a vision of beauty – those forms, pure elegance incarnate, not a single movement out of place, like he was never meant to be anywhere else, never meant to skate any other routine but this._

It’s not even about the interpretation of sexual love Katsudon’s skate is supposed to represent and which Yuri (despite all his raucous, derisive claims to the contrary) doesn’t really understand at all – it’s just that he can’t take his eyes off that damn step sequence, off the way Yuuri flows over the ice like spilled ink, like something no mortal eyes were made to see.

He lands the quad Salchow, and all Yuri can think is – _I taught him that, he landed that Salchow because of_ me _._ He doesn’t even notice when he starts mindlessly sucking on an empty straw instead of his juice package.

The girls are squealing ridiculously in front of the television, and the commentator’s voice drowns out what bits of music there are left coming from the speakers, but Yuri doesn’t need to hear. Not because he’s memorized each cord of the song by heart after countless times of watching Yuuri practice to it, but because it’s all there, in the grace of Yuuri’s fingers, in the waves of his arms, the bend of his body. And Yuri _aches_.

. . .

He almost misses watching the pig’s free skate, and then almost wishes he had.

. . .

( _The kiss. The kiss. Why is the kiss all he can think of? He’ll turn him into fucking borscht at Moscow. That’s all he_ needs _to think about. He valiantly ignores the feeling of a dagger twisting in his stomach._ )

. . .

Moscow feels like it hasn’t changed one bit in the time he was away. The busy streets, the noise, the cold, the familiar smell of his dedushka’s old and run-down car.

This is his home turf, and damn if he’ll let Katsudon walk all over him again. The memory of the last time he skated this program against him still tastes bitter on his tongue. He’ll beat Katsudon, who will drop out of the Grand Prix, and then Viktor won’t have any other choice but to come back to Russia to train him, instead.

And then…

_“Davai, Yurio!”_

and then, those two idiots go ahead and – bloody yell good luck wishes at him from the kiss and cry and – what the hell do they think they’re playing at?! He’s the _enemy_ , why are they encouraging him? And where the hell is grandpa, anyway – he promised… not like promises still seem to mean much, when it comes to Yuri. He flubs his first jump, still too mad and upset about it all, but damn it – he’s not gonna lose. Picks himself up after that, re-analyzes, finds strength from somewhere. He knows Katsudon is watching, and he’s gonna show him what he can do.

_“Yakov… you’re the only coach for me.”_

And then the news of Makkachin comes in, and Viktor leaves in a flurry of motion, and suddenly he has a distraught and lonely Katsudon clinging to him.

Well, alright, ‘clinging’ might not be the correct term… He tries to act tough, like it doesn’t even affect him that his coach-slash-loverboy suddenly left him alone in the middle of an important competition, but Yuri can see behind the mask easily, see how lost he really is in this strange country, abandoned in an empty hotel lobby.

(At the same time, he can’t purge the image of Viktor from his mind, agitated hand running through his hair, gaze pained.

It’s not like he doesn’t understand.

If something were to happen to Nika, he’s not quite sure what he would do.)

Memories spring to his mind unbidden:

Of the piggy gently pushing his hand to the side and pressing the correct buttons on the vending machine at the rink that he couldn’t decipher due to all those weird squiggly lines.

( _Kana? Kanji? Who the fuck knows._ )

Piggy inconspicuously showing him the correct handling of the unfamiliar chopsticks, all the while keeping up his conversation with Viktor like nothing’s happening at all.

Piggy playing translator when the monk keeps asking weird questions and only reacts to his frazzled English with more gibberish.

He sighs, curses silently and stalks up to the dark-haired man still standing like a lost puppy, grabs his arm roughly ( _‘Yurio?’ – ‘Not my fucking name, Katsudon._ ’) and drags him off to get dinner.

. . .

Yuri is ten when his grandpa ships him off to St Petersburg.

The bags are packed (all the measly two of them), Yuri’s grey sneakers are on his feet, and he’s sitting on his bed, legs dangling.

He doesn’t let his gaze wander around his room, over the few toys still left lying on the ground or the walls filled with the occasional child’s doodle. The room he spent the last ten years of his life in. Instead, he keeps his eyes pinned to the hands wringing on his lap in front of him.

His mama is out, and he doesn’t think she will come to say good-bye. It doesn’t matter. As soon as grandpa comes back from the last errand he said he had to run, they will leave, and he will leave all of this behind.

It’ll be a good thing, Yuri firmly tries to tell himself. He’ll be able to focus all his time on figure skating, and maybe make some friends in a (*gulp*) new city, and he will be out of what grandpa keeps calling a ‘toxic environment’.

(Though how can being around his mum be ‘toxic’? She’s his mum. Children are supposed to love their mum, no matter what, right? No matter if she maybe drinks a little much or grips his wrist a little too tight or doesn’t come running when he has a bad dream in the middle of the night. He’s supposed to love her, anyway, because she’s his mum and she’s the only mum he has, so that has to count for something, right?)

They will leave soon, and Yuri will arrive just in time for Coach Yakov’s summer camp. Coach Yakov, who has seen a video of him and agreed to take him in, for now. Grandpa didn’t explicitly tell him, but Yuri knows a lot of things hinge on his success there. He has to prove himself, and under absolutely no circumstances must he disappoint Coach Yakov. Yuri takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly and feels his eyes turn into steel. He can do it.

In that moment, there’s noise from outside in the hallway, and then his grandpa is knocking and coming through the door.

“Yura, my boy. I have a surprise for you. Something to remind you of home. If anyone at the dorms gives you trouble for it, tell them to take it up with me.”

She has crystal-clear blue eyes, and soft, white fur, and a snout and paws dipped in ink; and Yuri falls in love immediately. Gently, carefully, with eyes full of wonder, he takes her out of the kennel and cradles her against his chest. The small creature curls up against him immediately and begins to purr. For a moment, Yuri completely forgets to be nervous.

Sitting in the car on a long ride into the unknown, Yuri decides that he will protect Nika with his life, come what may, no matter what. He will be mature and grown up and take care of this little ball of fluff and he will make his grandpa proud. With Nika at his side, Yuri knows he can do this.

. . .

The light feeling from scoring a personal best in his Free Skate flies away like dust motes in the dark as he watches Katsudon botch up his own program to the point where it’s almost painful to watch. The ravenette delivers singles and touches down on the easiest of jumps, two-footing his landings. Yuri just wants to throttle him, shake some sense back into him.

But before Yuri can punch JJ in the face for his idiotic comments, the piggy catches himself, just in time for the second half.

Yuri isn’t quite sure what to make of it. His heart is pounding away in his chest and he can’t take his eyes off the other skater, ignoring Lilia’s voice commanding him to leave in the background. He’s not… he won’t admit he’s _proud_ of the piggy, alright? He’s not. They’re still rivals.

It’s just… a damn impressive feat, pulling yourself together after a bad time like that. Impressive to the point that Yuri doesn’t even gloat much over placing above the man. And anyway, Yuri can’t really count it as a win when fucking _JJ_ is still above him, _still_.

(Despite his absolutely flawless performance – even his best still isn’t enough, is it?)

( _Not enough not enough not enough –_ )

So Katsudon has absolutely no reason to be feeling so down, and Yuri can’t stand to see him moping around like that, alone on a cold, snowy evening a good distance from the rink. Who the hell does he think he is, anyway?!

The Katsudon piroshky had _better_ cheer him up, or else. Besides, his dedushka told him to ask his Japanese friend about his opinion on the new recipe. That’s all.

( _Now stop that damn smile, Katsudon. It’s annoying. And for Christ’s sake,_ stop _trying to hug me!_ )

. . .

Winter rolls around, and with it, the Grand Prix Final nudges closer. Barcelona turns out to be a time of many firsts for Yuri Plisetsky.

His first time in Spain.

(There’s a lot of pompous, sand-colored old buildings, and culture, and apparently the highest cathedral in Europe – Sagrada Familia. Yuri’s not one for architecture, but the mosaics at least are sorta pretty, and the street vendors sell lots of multicolored, strange candy in little boxes at the market, so he decides he desperately needs to stock up his stash of sugary goods. Yakov will never know.)

Yuri's first friend.

(Friend. A _friend. Him._ Yuri Plisetsky. Got asked to be _friends_ with someone. What?!)

(Yuri doesn’t _do_ friends. And yet…)

His first time just… honestly enjoying himself and forgetting the time while being around someone new and interesting.

( _“Holy shit, you’ve actually been to one of their concerts?!”_

_Otabek nods and hums in the affirmative, brows pulling down toward his nose in a look of concentration. He does that a lot, Yuri notices, like even just chatting with someone about his favorite band is something that requires deep consideration. It’s strangely endearing. “They were in Almaty around two years ago. McNair has a very strong voice in life performance, which is something you only see very rarely.”_

_“…~dude~. I still can’t believe you saw Welcome To The_ fucking _Madness life in concert.” Yuri slams his glass of peach ice tea on the table decidedly. “You’re bloody lucky, you know that?”_ )

His first time of feeling the carpet being pulled out from under his feet, in a way that makes his heart simultaneously drop to his stomach and pound up in his throat. For a second, he feels hot and cold, like he’s honest to God gonna black out, but he morphs his expression into one of practiced irritation at the last second and clenches his pant legs between his fingers.

(They’re… engaged. _Engaged._ Just like that. Like it’s no big deal, like the words don’t shatter Yuri’s world around him.)

(They still attract all the attention in the tiny café, naturally, because Viktor is a bloody attention whore and the guy from Thailand obviously doesn’t know when to shut the fuck up, but still they flaunt it as though it’s no big deal, they’re getting married once Katsudon wins gold, no biggie.

He can feel Otabek’s concerned gaze on the side of his head but pays it no heed. _This one’s far too observant,_ he will think, later when he’s curled up beneath the thin hotel sheets and trying desperately to keep it together.)

. . .

A bright winter sun wakes him early, and wrecked with nervous energy, Yuri heads out for a walk.

He hadn’t even been planning on hunting down Viktor. He just wanted a couple minutes to himself to clear his head, goddamn it, was that too much to ask for, really?! But then he sees the old man standing at the edge of a low wall by the harbor, staring at his outstretched hand like an idiot, and Yuri sees red.

_“Viktor Nikiforov is dead.”_

He doesn’t mean it. At least, Yuri doesn’t think so. He can’t – his head is a mess, such a bloody mess and he doesn’t even know what he wants anymore, but when he sees that god-forsaken thrice-damned ring glint in the morning sun, Yuri snaps.

_“Why do you look so happy to be looking after that damn pig?”_

Words are ripped from his depths like barbed wire, being spit from his lips, tightly squished between Viktor’s fingers. The returning coldness in Viktor’s eyes hurts like an icicle through the chest.

Why can’t he see that Yuri doesn’t mean a word he says, that he’s lashing out like a cornered animal? _Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me. See through this. Please. Christ, Viktor please, don’t leave me alone. Don’t do this. Is the pig really more important than me? I need you._ Pathetic.

Words Yuri is never in a million years gonna utter aloud.

He throws a peace offering in form of the reminder of Hasetsu, haphazardly, over his shoulder; of a time when he thought they were close, and begs Viktor to take it. And maybe he does.

. . .

Lastly, Barcelona brings with it Yuri Plisetsky’s very first World Record.

That’s right.

Him.

Yuri.

Not the pig, not fucking JJ, not Beka, not even that weird dude from Switzerland that seems to be way too obsessed with butts.

It’s Yuri who beats legendary Viktor Nikiforov’s World Record, who writes history on the ice.

Mila teaching him the Tano jumps had been a blessing, and to some the element might have seemed girly, but it plays right into Yuri’s hands. They already call him Russia’s Fairy, might as well live up to the name.

His mind just goes blank in his skate; later, he’ll be hard pressed during the interviews to explain what he felt, what he thought, how he moved his body; all he knows is – white, a pure, sweet feeling flowing through his body like warm honey, like a soft blanket on cold days, wrapping around his heart.

He did this for his grandpa, his old dedushka with the bad back, who he’d phoned that morning after coming back from the harbor, who was able to talk him down from his agitation, because grandpa is always around and is reliable, unlike some other people. Grandpa who took care of him when no one else had, who always stood behind him. This was Yuri’s way of paying him back.

The crash doesn’t come until a while after.

It’s not until Yuri lets the hotel room door (thank _fuck_ , a single) fall closed behind him after numerous hours of interviews and signing screeching fans’ pictures, until he lets his wearied body flop onto the soft mattress that an image jumps into his mind.

Katsudon, after his finishing pose, just sort of… slumping, falling into himself, like a house of cards collapsing. Yuri had seen his shoulders shaking, cowering above the ice, and a horrible feeling of dread had started spreading icy tendrils through his stomach.

It had just been one botched jump, just one, and had it been any smaller competition, it would have been an okay routine, among the top even, but this is nothing you can bring to a Grand Prix Finale and still expect to win. And it looked like Katsudon knows it.

Yuri doesn’t know why the fuck he’s gotten so attuned to the pair, but now that he thinks about it, he could _feel_ that there’s something… off, about the way they’re acting, something in the closed off set of Yuuri’s shoulders. Ever since the short program. He's seen only hints of the Japanese man's anxiety so far, but he knows enough by now to realize it's Bad News.

Yes, he wanted the pig to lose, Yuri wanted to win the Finale and get Viktor back for himself in Russia, but this… at the same time, this is somehow _not_ what he wanted, and he can’t quite explain the feeling.

He’s scared that Yuuri and Viktor will both stop skating, and then what will become of him? His biggest competition will be fucking _JJ_ , and disgusting Chris. (But more than that, deep down he just doesn’t want to be left alone now that he’s finally found some interesting people who might give sort of a shit about him, but like hell if he’ll acknowledge that.)

_“Did you want to compete against me?”_

He’s not sure what he wants – he wants to share a rink with Viktor again, is reminded of his years-old dream of sharing the ice with the silver-haired man at a competition, measure himself up against the legend and come out on top – but that would mean he’d stop being Yuuri’s coach, who would probably retire, and he sure as fuck doesn’t want that, either –

_“Not all skaters look up to you.”_

Or the worst case scenario: both of them just quietly fade out of the world of figure skating entirely, leaving behind a wedding invite and a desolate blonde all alone on his cool knife-shoes. Even keeping Viktor on as a coach would be better than that, if it meant at least Yuuri would stay.

_Knife-shoes aren’t meant to be worn alone._

_(pling.)_

**Want to go celebrate?**

His new friend’s question would have sounded tempting at any other time, but suddenly, Yuri just wants to shower off the day’s sweat and curl up beneath the covers. His thoughts are a big confused jumble, and friends or not, he doesn’t really _know_ Otabek yet. He gives a quick reply before peeling out of his costume and heading off to the bath.

. . .

_“What? You’re coming back?!”_

_“Does that mean the Katsudon’s retiring?”_

_“…that is his decision.”_

Yuri had once moved heaven and hell to keep a lunatic Yuuri Katsuki from glomping him, yet when Viktor approaches him in the hallway, shadow dreadfully slowly falling over him, he finds himself frozen. There’s something desperate about the clenching grip of the old man around his body, and a whisper in his ear, two simple words hot against his skin: “ _End this_.”

What did Viktor mean by that? ‘ _End Yuuri’s career’_? ‘ _End my career as a coach’_?

No.

Yuri can feel Viktor’s true meaning in the tense set of fingers burying themselves in his team jacket, in the way the old man hides his face in Yuri’s neck. The smell of mint and cologne envelopes them both. A hug is, and always has been, Viktor’s only way of reaching out for help.

_‘Please, Yuri. Yuuri is leaving me and I can’t stop him. I’ve done everything I could and it wasn’t enough. Please keep him from leaving. End this foolishness, win gold, give him something to keep fighting for. I’m begging you.’_

During his time at the St. Petersburg rink, Yuri can count on one hand how many times he has seen Viktor this way. At the absolute end of his tether.

He’s laying everything in Yuri’s hands now.

And so, Yuri gives it his all during the free skate – _are you watching, Katsudon? This is for you. For you, and for stupid Viktor, but mostly for me because I’m selfish and I don’t want you to leave. Don’t leave me._

_Don’t you fucking dare._

The messed up jump and – damn-it, he can’t screw this up now.

_Keep fighting. Keep fighting. End this._

This is everything. It’s not just a gold medal, not anymore. His ribs ache like a bitch at the spiral, but Yuri pushes through the bruises and the pain with clenched teeth.

He finishes, and he’s just so goddamned angry, at Katsudon, for wanting to give up now that he’s beat Viktor _once_ , before he even had a chance to share the ice with him; at Viktor, for pushing all this responsibility onto his narrow, brittle shoulders; but most of all at _himself_ because he screwed up, he screwed up so bad and now the piggy will get his stupid gold medal and his stupid picture-book wedding and leave him all alone again and his knee hurts from the fall and he’s _tired_ , so bones-deep exhausted from going well beyond his limit that he has to fight to keep the nausea in check as he stands, panting, in his final position.

The results are announced and he’s numb. He has just written Men’s Singles history but he’s simply numb as he climbs the podium, as a nameless girl hangs a golden ring on a string around his neck, which dangles heavy and cold against his chest. It’s over. It’s over, now.

. . .

He gives it two days after Yuuri’s arrival in Russia to settle in until he finds an excuse to inconspicuously drop by Viktor’s apartment.

The Japanese man was supposed to be joining general practice at the rink the next day, and maybe Yuri was just the tiniest bit excited about that (not like he’d be caught dead admitting _that_ ), but it wouldn’t hurt to make sure Katsudon hadn’t gotten a heart attack and died from the mess that was Nikiforov’s apartment yet. It would undo all the effort Yuri had put into keeping him as a competitor.

So, after coming back from Lilia’s private studio to her mansion that day, stripping out of his ballet outfit and into something comfier, and making sure Nika is taken care of, he heads over to Viktor’s place.

The building is within walking distance of the rink, in one of the better parts of St. Petersburg, and thankfully not far from Lilia’s home. Regardless of the distance, the cold Russian winter wind has blown a blush onto Yuri’s cheeks poking out over his cheetah-print scarf by the time he crosses the street one last time and reaches the unassuming apartment block.

With his spare keys, Yuri lets himself inside the place like he owns it and drops his messenger bag on the couch, startling Yuuri who appears to have been sorting some knick-knack or another into the book-shelf.

The apartment looks suspiciously clean, Yuri notes.

“Yurio! How nice to see you again, I didn’t know you were coming!” Katsudon exclaims.

Yuri grunts in lieu of answering and heads over to the kitchen to check the fridge. Wouldn’t do to let any good snacks go to waste.

“Viktor invited me for dinner,” he says.

“Oh, really?”

No, not really. But there’s a good idea. Maybe Katsudon can cook? He did grow up in an inn, after all.

…God knows Viktor’s utterly useless inside a kitchen.

Speaking of, where…?

“Viktor’s out getting groceries right now. We were thinking of making tempura and miso soup today.”

_…‘we’? Any idea what you’re getting yourself into, piggy?_

There’s mail lying on the counter, and after deeming the fridge empty of edibles and Viktor’s grocery visit absolutely necessary, Yuri absent-mindedly goes through it, sorting and opening what looks to be bills with his pocket knife, putting them into a neat stack to the side to be taken care of later and throwing the unimportant stuff away. He can see Katsudon meandering over from the living room curiously.

_Interview offer… interview offer… junk… plumbing bill (what did the idiot do to his bathroom this time?!)… telephone bill… ‘Dear reader of “Poodles Monthly”’… electricity… sponsorship… ‘Free penis pump!!! Look inside!!!! (…really, Nikiforov?)…_

Out of the corner of his eye, Yuri becomes aware of the other man’s inquisitive, confused gaze. Katsudon starts fidgeting, and it takes Yuri a moment to realize it’s probably a little odd for a teenager to randomly stroll into an adult’s apartment and open their mail unasked, but it’s become such a routine to him that usually Yuri doesn’t think twice about the habit anymore.

“Viktor’s an airhead,” he explains off-handedly. “He never manages to handle his mail. If it weren’t for me, he’d probably get monthly visits from the repo man.” And maybe Yuri is just the tiniest bit smug about revealing these embarrassing facts about Viktor to his fiancé. He sets the last of the correspondence to the side and puts away his knife. “In return, I’ve decided his fridge is free game.”

Yuuri keeps staring at him with an odd look in his eyes, and Yuri wouldn’t care much except he really doesn’t get what Katsudon’s getting at. So what if he’s a little young to be handling finances? It’s nothing he hasn’t had to do for himself for years now.

“What?!” he snaps eventually, and at least the piggy has the decency to look sheepish when he’s caught out.

Yuuri takes a quick breath and mumbles, “I guess I hadn’t realized you had been such a big part of Viktor’s life, before,” and _oh_.

“Don’t fool yourself, piggy.” Yuri looks away, busying himself with getting a soda even though he has absolutely no reason to have to hide. He’s feeling bitter, not sad. “From the looks of it, I was easy enough to cut out of it.”

The moment is broken, and Yuri is proud to say he manages to stay miffed at least until the savory sent of miso soup is wafting through the apartment a few hours later and Yuuri calls him to table.

. . .

(It might not start with fondness, but familiarity is probably the next best thing.)

 

 

. . .

. . .


	2. Act 1, Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The lights are swimming blindingly above his head and he can feel blood trickling down his brow, into his eyes. 
> 
> One second, two… he doesn’t know if he held the pose long enough by the time he crumbles to his knees, instinct pushing his arms out for balance against the ice just in case it’s not enough and he has to stand up again to greet the audience, though who is he kidding, that’s ridiculous, it’s over, it’s over, and he throws up bile on the floor before passing out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops, this somehow took longer than I thought it would. But hey, look. 28k words. This single chapter is longer than my whole goddamn Bachelor thesis, and we didn’t even get to the kissing part yet. I am officially reshaping the definition of the term ‘slow burn’.
> 
> Also, I don’t know shit about which figure skating competition gives what kind of prize money and how young figure skaters even manage their finances but hey, just role with it ;)
> 
> Unbeta’d; gonna proof-read this later, yo.

 

**Kingdom Locked Up**

**Act 1, Part 2**

 

In general, Yuuri has a hard time learning to find his way around Russia; and it’s not like Viktor doesn’t care or doesn’t want to help him, it’s just that he has a lot on his mind what with coaching Yuuri and getting himself back into shape in the scant few weeks before Nationals.

And it’s not like Yuri and Katsudon are _friends_ , per se, but damnit – it makes him mad to watch the other be so helpless and irritating.

That’s all there is to it.

Seeing Viktor and Yakov argue off to the side has become a familiar sight since the prodigy’s return, and honestly, it was only to be expected. Viktor can be stubborn as a mule, and Yuri knows he wants his come-back at the Nationals to be as grand as possible, but there’s only so much you can do with a body you’ve been neglecting for well over half a year. The ice forgives nothing.

Katsudon spent the past few minutes gliding idly over the ice, practicing some step combinations, but now has wandered over to the benches for a water break, stealing the occasional glances towards his boyfriend. Yuri has made use of Yakov’s momentary distraction for his own quick break, so he has best seats to see the whole drama unfold.

From his spot a few meters away, he has no trouble making out the hunched shape of Yuuri’s shoulders, the slight tremble of his fingers around the bottle (and wow, when did Yuri start paying so much bloody attention?) and it’s obvious to anyone who knows the Japanese that the arguing is bothering him, that he’s probably blaming himself in some moronic way again.

Yuri’s exhausted from the strain the upcoming Nationals are putting on him, too, legs aching and muscles screaming for more than a quick five minute break. They’ve been at this practically non-stop since the early morning, and it’s almost noon, anyway.

“Come on, Katsudon.”

Avoiding yet _another_ run-through of his Free Skate is the whole reason why he drags a baffled Yuuri first to the locker rooms to quickly slip into their street shoes and then off to have syrniki at his favorite place down the road. It’s about time for a snack.

He orders for the both of them in Russian, then leans back and watches the other patrons of the little café bustling about while rubbing his cold hands against each other, decidedly not acknowledging the man sitting next to him and regarding him curiously.

"What are we getting?” he asks. Well, damn. So much for ignoring.

“Syrniki,” Yuri answers briskly.

Yuuri nods as though he has any idea what that means, then snatches a menu from the empty table next to them.

“Could you show me what it looks like written down?” he asks. “Please. I want to learn how to order it myself.”

And damnit, why does he have to look so earnest when he says that? Yuri has trouble saying no to those big, brown eyes (God knows Viktor probably has a hard time resisting those, too – they are like puppy eyes, and Viktor has always been weak for animal offspring). So with a very theatrical sigh that tells the Katsudon exactly how much of a bother he is being, Yuri opens the menu to the third page by memory. It’s been ages since he needed it to order here.

“Alright. See, here?” He points to the header reading ‘Блинчики’. “That’s pronounced ‘blinchiki’.” He can see Yuuri mumbling the word under his breath, trying to memorize. “It basically means ‘pancakes’. They sell different ones here, but the only one you really need to remember is this over here…”

His finger moves down towards a line at the bottom saying ‘Сырники со свежими ягодами’.

“‘Syrniki so svezhimi yagodami’.”

“‘Syrniki so sveshmi… ya…’”

“‘…so svezhimi yagodami’,” Yuri repeats, a little slower, easily ignoring the nosey looks from the customers two tables to the left. None of their damn business. “Really, the syrniki is the only important part, so forget the rest.”

Of course, the piggy still spends the next few minutes bent over the card, mumbling the new, unfamiliar words to himself and apparently trying to decipher the individual letters.

_What a nerd._

Yuri uses the time to let Viktor know where they went off to via text, in case the idiot finally notices their absence and decides to panic. He switches his keyboard to Cyrillic.

**_Took ur boytoy for cheesecakes. Will bring back in perfect condition. Yakov’s all urs_ **

Viktor replies immediately, proving that Yuri had been right about the impending panic attack:

 **_Ahh, thank you Yuriooo!!!~ so sweet of you to show my love around!!!_ ** **_have fun!!! <3-:_ **

_Ugh. Too many goddamn exclamation marks._

“So, what is it?”

“Huh?” Yuri blinks.

“What we’re eating,” Yuuri explains.

_Oh._

Yuri puts away his phone and leans back. “Eh… syrniki are kinda like pancakes, but made with curd cheese. ‘So svezhimi yagodami’ means ‘with fresh berries’. Obviously, that’s a lie, since it’s winter. You’re not… allergic to milk or anything, are you?” He remembers with a jolt that that’s somehow a thing in Japan, and feels a faint note of concern rise in his gut. None of the Japanese dishes he’d eaten back then in Hasetsu at the inn had contained milk, now that he thinks about it.

Katsudon reassures him after a stunned moment. “Ah, no! Don’t worry, I’m not.”

“I wasn’t worrying!” Yuri exclaims immediately. The nerve – ! “Just didn’t want to have to deal with you dying on me, or anything. Idiot.” After a second, he adds grumpily, “I promised Viktor I’d bring you back in decent condition.”

“Oh!” The piggy slaps a palm against his forehead. _Doesn’t that hurt…?_ “I completely forgot to tell Viktor that I left. Did you message him?” Yuri nods. “Thank you for that!”

“Whatever.”

The food arrives, together with two cups of black tea, and they slip into silence again as both start eating. From the look on his face, Katsudon at least seems to enjoy the new dish.

“This is so good!”

Yuri drums his feet against the floor.

“My grandpa used to take me out for syrniki a lot whenever he came to visit me here,” Yuri admits, and he doesn’t even know where the words are coming from or why he’s sharing that tidbit with Yuuri. It’s not like it’s some big kinda secret, and yet… “He’s good at making piroshky, but syrniki was always something we’d go to a café for. It’s kind of tradition.”

He doesn’t mention that he hasn’t been letting himself indulge in this particular pleasure in a while now due to his strict diet. Then again, it has been just as long that his grandpa has last had the money to come visit. Rostelecom had been a relief, in that respect.

Yuuri hums thoughtfully. “…thank you, Yurio, for sharing this with me. It means a lot to me,” he eventually says, voice soft.

“Tsh, whatever,” Yuri mumbles dismissively, “You’re paying.”

He definitely doesn’t hide a blush over his steaming black tea when Yuuri gives him a gentle, knowing smile around a mouthful of pancakes. He forces the warm feeling in his stomach down, blames it on the hot food, and pretends he doesn’t live for being looked at like that by his used-to-be-idol.

. . .

Maybe the lingering light-headedness is the reason for acting so soft later that day.

They’d come back to the rink half an hour later to find out Viktor had used the time not spent coaching Yuuri to have an appointment with his physical therapist, so Yakov relays orders at Katsudon to work on his quad flip in Viktor’s absence before turning to give Yuri an earful for sneaking off like that. In other words, life as usual.

An hour later, Viktor is back, and he’s trying to hide it, but it’s obvious to any skater who’s been in his position before that he’s in pain. The old man’s fiancé is still on the ice, whereas Yuri is just about to put his blade guards on for a bathroom break (the black tea from earlier seeking sweet freedom), so he’s the first one to notice Viktor’s slight limp; and alright, maybe he kind of pities the guy.

Yes, it was his own foolishness for letting himself get so out of shape, his own air-headedness and lovey-dovey-ness and all the other unflattering attributes Yuri’s too exhausted to list, but Yuri can also see that Viktor is _trying_ to get this right, to please his fiancé both by staying as his coach and by gracing the ice again himself and it’s tough, okay?

So when Viktor accidentally drops his towel and bends to pick it up painstakingly, Yuri gets there first, and just because he was passing by anyway on the way to the restrooms and seeing the old man grimacing makes his own calves hurt in sympathy pain. He bunches the towel up and stuffs it in Viktor’s annoying, flabbergasted face, then leaves before the man can get his bearings.

Russian winter is brutal, but somehow… whenever he sees those two, Yuri feels just a little less cold.

. . .

(It will take some time before Yuri can admit it to himself, but it’s not really his grandpa the syrniki remind him of.

Or rather, they remind him of what his grandpa once upon a time tried to remind him _of_.

Of a better time, long, oh so long ago, when Yuri was three and happy and his mum, dazzling with life and having a blush kissed onto her cheeks by a loving husband, pushed the cheesecakes onto his plate in front of the baby highchair while humming in tune to a song of her latest show.

But that memory has been long since buried, and feels much too raw and bittersweet to be dragged to the forefront again.

Watching Katsudon munch on another forkful, cheeks stuffed and round and a content crease around his eyes, he thinks that maybe it’s about time to make some new memories.)

. . .

A few days before Christmas, Yuuri heads back to Japan for his own Nationals in Hokkaido so he has time to sleep the jetlag off. Yuri won’t admit it, but the rink feels rather empty without him in it.

And if _he_ is noticing, Yuri wonders how bad the Japanese’s absence must be hitting Viktor, who just arrived at the rink after dropping his fiancé off at the airport. His expression is unreadable for a moment, but then his fake 1000-Watt smile turns on full force.

“Yurio, my dear! Let’s give our best today, yes? No time for slacking off!” he yells (way too loudly) and starts on his stretches. Yuri cautiously decides to ignore him as usual.

. . .

**for real?! That’s sick, man!**

**That is one way of calling it. Predominantly unorthodox would be another. By the way, did you manage to work on your Tanos like you’d been planning to?**

Yuri stays in contact with Otabek; they text each other a lot. Somehow, the Kazakh is the only one who doesn’t manage to get on his nerves during the harsh lead-up to Nationals, where Yuri usually turns into a spit-fire miniature volcano. Everyone else is just… so fucking annoying, okay?! Not Otabek, though. He’s cool.

Yuri is about to tell his friend (and _wow_ , ‘his friend’, he can actually say those words now, like they’re absolutely completely normal) that the double-handed Tano is working _fine_ on most of his jumps even if stupid Yakov isn’t willing to let him take the risk during Nationals because _maybe_ his success rate is still at about 80% (so what?!) when Yuri’s phone vibrates in his hand with an incoming call.

_Huh?_

He stares at the unknown number, recognizing the Moscow area code, before hitting ‘accept’.

“ _Yes?_ ”

“ _Gorodskaya Clinical Hospital speaking. Is this Yuri Plisetsky?_ ”

Yuri freezes, stomach dropping to his feet.

“ _…yes?_ ” He doesn’t mean for the words to drop from his lips so hesitantly, but they do. He sees movement in the corner of his eye, but ignores it. “ _What is it?_ ”

“ _Mister Plisetsky, you were listed as Nikolai Plisetsky’s primary emergency contact. Your grandfather appears to have had an accident this morning while…_ ” The words that follow fly straight over his head.

Accident.

His grandpa had an…

…an _accident_.

The hospital is calling.

His grandpa is in hospital, because something happened. He… is he…

“Yuri?”

The concerned voice at his side and cold hand on his back rip him out of the maelstrom of thoughts, and he vaguely takes note of the person beside him.

“Is everything alright? You’re white as a sheet…”

_Why the fuck is he speaking English? He must be spending too much time around the pig – no, focus!!_

“ _How bad?_ ” he asks into the receiver, interrupting the female’s explanations on the other end. She must have noticed from the way his voice is shaking that he wasn’t paying attention before now and starts over. Viktor walks around his back to the other side so he can listen in.

As it turns out, grandpa’s bad back had caused him to fall and break his upper leg; one of the neighbors found him when she heard him calling out. He was supposed to get surgery within the next few hours to reset the bones, which had received a complicated fracture and would need a metal plate to hold them in place for the next few months. A standard procedure, as she assures him, but with the elderly, there was always a risk involved with anesthesia.

(And how fucked up is it anyway, that _Yuri_ is his primary emergency contact, that his own mum’s usually not sober enough to be much of a help, that an old man’s best bet is a fucking kid, a teen?!)

Movement catches his eye, and he looks over to Viktor, who’s taking out his own cell and starting to type away. Yuri ends the phone call and turns to face the other man fully.

“What’re you doing?”

“Re-routing our flights.”

“…wha-? Viktor, are you insane?! Yakov’s gonna kill you!”

Nationals are in two days; they’d been bound to leave the next morning, so they would have time to get to know the rink during their allotted practice time.

Yuri stares at Viktor like he’s lost his mind, but the elder just catches his gaze over the rim of the purple and gold cover uncharacteristically serious and replies, in a quiet voice, “Not over this.”

. . .

Their flight leaves at six in the evening; barely enough time to get everything packed for the following Nationals and talk to their respective pet-sitters. Yuri texts Otabek after they’re through security and heading towards the gate, barely having remembered they were in the middle of a conversation before the hospital called.

 **sry, grandpa broke his leg and is in hospital. heading to Moscow now with old man** , he types quickly.

 **Oh!** He doesn’t have to wait long for a reply. **I hope he will be alright. Please send him my well-wishes.  
Chin up, tiger!**

Everything after that is a blur of people, hallways, flight attendants rattling off instructions, Viktor gently shoving the seat belt buckle into his hands… He vaguely recalls telling the nurse at the front desk his name, and the distinct smell of _hospital_ surrounding him like an acidic cloud, curling up his toe nails and making a shudder run down his spine.

Grandpa is gonna be alright, the surgery went well, but he’s still down under when Yuri steps up to his bed to assure himself his old dedushka is still breathing, looking pale and tired and _old_. There’s tubes in his nose, and needles in his veins under white gauze, and beeping, and –

 ( _“Kid, you know I gotta ask these questions. Are you_ sure _you got that sprain from tripping and crashing against a table?” He remains quiet. His mother is a silent shadow at his side, gripping his uninjured hand painfully hard. Antiseptics seep into his nose, his skin chilled. Yuri nods._

 _This will be the last time. He will try harder at school, and hide his ballet shoes better, and Papa won’t have a reason to next time. He will be better. He_ will _be._ )

Yuri’s tired from the flight, and the practice at the rink before that, and his eyes and lungs are burning from the dry air. He pushes back through the door, past where Viktor is talking to a nurse, and down the sterile hallway. There’s a voice calling out, but Yuri ignores it.

He’s just gotta get away, has to –

_If Papa catches me, he’ll be so angry! He knows they ask questions in a hospital and he won’t –_

_No, damnit. Focus. Focus!_

He can feel his breathing starting to catch in his throat from the cloud of disinfectants and plastic that he just can’t escape, visual, auditory and olfactory stimuli all blurring together in his brain, and he blindly heads sideways into a men’s restroom to escape the view of prying eyes.

His legs are going weak like wet noodles, so Yuri lets himself sink to his knees beside the sinks, praying to any God listening that no one will come inside and see him like this. Everything spins dizzily around him, and he curls his legs up to his chest and closes his eyes.

_My name is Yuri Plisetsky, I am 15 years old, I have a grandfather who loves me and I’m an ice skater on the Russian national team, and –_

_Oh, fuck. The Nationals._

He isn’t ready. He can’t – not when he’s worrying about his grandfather the entire time, his grandfather who’s old, and the only member of his family left who even wants him around, and what is Yuri gonna do once he’s gone?!

He’s gotta make money these Nationals, especially now that there’s a hefty hospital bill to pay (not just the room and examination, but a _surgery_ ), and then grandpa will need somebody to assist him back home, he can’t walk on that leg and he’s all alone in the old apartment and –

_Why are hospitals always so damn cold?_

Yuri can’t hear anything else over the rasping sound of his breathing, the ringing in his ears and the quaking of his limbs, and then the nervous coughing starts.

_Am I getting asthma?! Oh fuck, I can’t be getting asthma, shut up, I don’t have time for this, my body is all I have left; I don’t –_

The walls are closing in on his little corner, white and bland and shivering in the flickering neon tubes and medical tang all around him.

_I want to get out of here…_

_No, grandpa needs me – be strong!_

_Please, please let me get out! Just let me curl up with Mama on the couch with the soft blanket and drink hot chocolate, just like we used to…_

Arms wrap around his shaking body, and then the heady scent of cologne drowns out all else.

“Shh…”

He’s being hugged tight to a firm chest and rocked gently, and somehow Viktor manages to hold his body together while his mind is floating somewhere three feet above their heads. Half an hour leaves him gasping and wheezing and crying painful tears into Viktor’s shirt that he’s clutching in a death grip, exhausted, though somehow able to pull himself together with his last shred of strength. Even though his shirt is damp from snot and saliva, Viktor doesn’t comment on it.

Instead, the older Russian gently instructs him to wash his hands and face, the scent of perfume and laundry detergent still in his nose, and catches his gaze over Yuri’s shoulder in the mirror. Gone is the ice from a chilly harbor in Barcelona. Instead of a so-called adult looking down on an overwhelmed child, Yuri sees acknowledgement, respect towards a fellow fighter. He sees an ‘I know you can handle this’, and an ‘I’m behind you every step of the way’.

Yuri sets his jaw and nods silently. He’s got this.

. . .

It’s soon after, during the Russian Nationals at Yekaterinburg, that Yuri gets to return the favor.

Sure, the worry about his grandpa and the medical expenses is still at the back of his mind like an ugly weed, but he’s doing okay…ish. All that crying and freaking out really calmed him down; like a catharsis.

The two of them join the others at the arena half a day late, but Yakov already managed to wheedle in some rescheduled practice time for them, so that they get a chance to greet the ice on their own terms and get used to the new layout. Mila jumps him and asks Yuri about his grandfather like a frazzled rhino while grabbing him in a headlock. He pushes her off, exasperated. Some things never change, after all.

Working through his two routines quickly on the ice helps Yuri cool down further, and later, when all the members of the St Petersburg Sports Champion Rink head out together to grab a bite to eat, when excited fans recognize them and demand their autographs, Yuri can’t help but revel in nostalgia of how things used to be, the comfort of routine.

The feeling is further cemented when Yuri and Viktor check into their joint hotel room and the first thing they do is collectively raid the minibar (Yuri going for the snacks, Viktor for the Vodka); when reporters swarm them the next day on the way to the lockers, asking for interviews from Viktor the Returned Legend and Yuri the Next Generation. Him and Viktor, the pride of Russia, the two of them against the world. Just as it always has been.

Viktor’s not doing too swell, though. It’s not obvious to anyone who doesn’t know him, but Yuri _does_.

Know him, that is.

And it’s plain that Viktor misses his fiancé. This is supposed to be his big return to figure skating, yet the one person who means the most to him isn’t here to witness it at all because he has his own battle to fight. It doesn’t help that it’s Christmas, which – as he’s heard – is a lover’s holiday in Japan. And as much as Yuri complains about those two being sappy with each other, seeing Viktor so deflated… _ugh_.

The older Russian somehow does decently on his short program, but the day of the free skate, Yuri can just… _see_ that he’s gonna screw this up. There are dark rings under his eyes, and his gaze seems listless at the breakfast table.

And as much as Yuri likes the idea of beating Viktor, this isn’t a fair fight.

He doesn’t really have much experience in comforting people, to be honest. But he does what he can.

Viktor is lounging around the other skaters, making small-talk and smiling too-bright and laughing too-loud, and the painfully fake sound grates on Yuri’s ears, so he drags Viktor away from there and into a quiet corner somewhere.

“…Yurio? What are you – ”

“Shut up geezer. You’re being a pain.”

He pushes him onto a seat and sits next to him, almost close enough for their shoulders to touch, and waits for Viktor to calm down from his nervous fretting, shooting down questions as soon as they appear on Viktor’s lips while playing angry birds on his phone.

“Why are you – ”

“Shut up.”

“What is – ”

“No.”

“Yuriooo~!”

“Damnit Viktor, I said _no_!”

Once he’s quieter and his knee’s stopped bouncing up and down, Yuri closes the game and opens up the camera app.

“Smile for your Katsudon”, he says and snaps a selfie of the two.

The first one ends up looking really ridiculous, with Viktor wide-eyed and ruffled above the red-and-white of his training jacket. “Oh – _oh!_ Yurio! Wait, no, that’s no good. Lemme just fix my – ”

Viktor pats over his thinning hair and the collar of his costume peeking out while checking himself out in Yuri’s front camera, as though that makes things any better, but whatever. They take another picture, and a third, just in case. (…and then a fourth, fifth – _“Ah, wait! I was blinking in that one – no no, that expression is a no-go, and can’t you see the way my nostrils are – ”_ )

**Your idiot husband is being annoying.**

He sends the best one to Yuuri, who is probably just about done with his own competition due to the time difference but wouldn’t want to interrupt their phase of concentration. The Japanese replies quickly.

**Not my husband yet ;-)**

_(Who even still uses the hyphen for winking smilies? Shows again what century Katsudon was born in.)_

**How is he being annoying?**

**He’s moping like a lovesick puppdasfgkhaf**

“I am not _moping_!” Viktor complains indignantly. “The outrage!”

“Are too, now gimme back my goddamn phone or so _help me God Viktor!_ ”

**?**

**Now he’s stealing my phone!! Put a damn leash on him or something!!!**

They had decided beforehand to keep their results under wraps until all of them were through, to not raise expectations for each other, but they still text back and forth good-naturedly for a few minutes; Viktor with his bony chin on Yuri’s shoulder. The boy will be the first to admit he isn’t a tactile person, but he knows this proximity is calming to Viktor, who always communicated through touch and sensation rather than words, and Yuri strangely doesn’t mind the arm that has wound around his waist.

By the time it’s Viktor’s turn, he seems much more relaxed, and he graces Yuri with a grateful, if knowing smile (and what is it with everyone looking at him with that _knowing_ look lately, anyway? Like they’re in on some big secret; like Yuri grew a pair of purple butterfly wings without noticing, like he suddenly started _caring_ about people, or something. Psh).

Yuri blushes and looks to the side. “Don’t think I’ll go easy on you,” he grumbles. “Geezer.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to.”

. . .

They head up to their hotel room after the free skate is over to change out of their costumes and into something more comfy to go celebrate with the others, and after letting themselves inside, Yuri heads to his suitcase and digs into it. When he finds the object he is looking for, he briefly checks the weight in his hand before throwing it at Viktor’s head, where it makes a squeaking noise. Well, Viktor and the thing both.

“Yuriooo! What was that?”

“Jeesh, why don’t you _check_?” _Duh._

Viktor picks up the tiger-striped sock and removes the squeaky toy-dog from inside. Viktor gasps.

“…Yurio! Is that – ”

“For Makka, yes. Cause she’s the only one in your household I can even remotely stand.” Then, he turns back to his suitcase so it can conveniently muffle his voice. “…didn’t think I’d forgotten, did you?”

His temporary roommate takes a deep breath ( _oh no_ ) and then gives one of the largest coos Yuri has heard of him to date (which, frankly, is a lot). “Yurio! _Thank you!_ Makka will be so happy about this!” And then the idiot tries to glomp him, as Yuri half-heartedly tries to fight him off.

“Hey, I want that sock back, _got it?!_ ”

. . .

They all meet up again in Moscow after Nationals are over, Yuuri and Viktor and Yuri, to spend New Year’s getting Grandpa Plisetsky settled in at home again, making katsudon piroshky in the kitchen and trading stories. He’d have liked to play with those Japanese sparklers again that they had in Hasetsu (even if they were _kind of_ scary at first, not like he’ll admit it by pain of death), but this – this works too. Grandpa is not alone like this.

“Eat, eat, Yura! You’re a growing boy, you can use it!” It won’t be until a long few months later that the relevance of that sentence will really strike home.

The morning of the New Year, when everyone is still asleep, he slips away for a few hours, an envelope full of prize money from the Nationals in his jacket pocket. He doesn’t have a key anymore, so he slides the money into his mom’s mailbox.

Didn’t want to talk to her, anyway.

Viktor gives him a Look when he comes back, but keeps his mouth shut – good for him.

. . .

The new year passes, they keep training.

He doesn’t really know how it happens, but Yuri starts spending more and more time at the couple’s apartment. He blames it on the fact that Yuuri claims to be better than him at almost every video game (apparently, he and his sister were avid gamers as children), and loath as he is to admit it, the man’s not _bad_. So it’s only natural Yuri has to try to keep Katsudon in check, so that the successes don’t go to his head. Viktor, who is so old Jesus looks young next to him and thus absolutely fails at anything console-related, watches from the sidelines.

Yuri punches him when the other Russian keeps cheering on his fiancé rather than the real champ, him.

(“You know… I really appreciate you coming over so often,” Yuuri murmurs while combing together the carnage of their last popcorn fight on the carpet, initiated after Yuri’s rival cheated at GTA by letting his not-yet-husband tickle Yuri just before the finish line. He can hear Viktor in the kitchen cleaning off the bowls from their earlier dinner and singing a Russian pop song horribly off-key.

Yuri glances over from where he’s folding the blankets and tilts his head in question.

Yuuri continues in that soft voice of his, suddenly unable to hold his gaze as though embarrassed. “I know Viktor tries his best but… everything here is still so new, this whole apartment is, and you just – well, I know you.” There’s a blush coloring his cheeks, and he shrugs helplessly. “It feels good, having someone familiar around.”

Yuri’s breath catches, and for a moment he’s not sure how to respond without making a fool of himself. He blows out his cheeks, then huffs and gives a light kick to the piggy’s shoulder. “Don’t be an idiot.”)

One morning, Yuri swings his legs over the side of the bed and stretches in the early morning light filtering through the mansion’s windows. He looks down and falters.

_…when did my thighs get this thick?_

He gingerly pokes the flesh with his pointer finger, sees the skin dip below the edge of his boxers. He still feels sore from yesterday’s rigorous workout.

_Probably just new muscle, but…_

It’s true that he has been eating dinner over at Viktor and Yuuri’s place almost more times than he does under Lilia’s watchful eye, and yes, they’re professional athletes too, but they do tend to indulge more than the former leader of the Bolshoi usually allows her prima ballerina. It’s not exactly Katsudon every second day, but still hearty Russian and Japanese meals; plus they are both larger than him, and thus can eat a little more, and Yuri hadn’t taken that into account whenever they slid a plate over to him.

Yuri shivers in the cold room, deciding to finally get dressed. A few calories less, a little more workout won’t hurt him.

. . .

Ever since snagging gold in his GPF senior debut, Yuri keeps getting sponsorship offers left and right. And while he’s grateful for the extra money it gives him and he tries to take up as many offers as he can, it takes away from his practice time, and some of the jobs grate on his nerves.

A perfume brand is willing to offer him a large sum of money for staring in their new commercial, and while the outfit for the shoot isn’t half bad, the perfume itself (which thank god he doesn’t actually have to wear but took a sniff of earlier) smells absolutely disgusting and more than that, he doesn’t understand half of the commands the exasperated director is giving him.

“More sex-appeal! Give them the bedroom eyes!”

The hell is that supposed to mean?! He tries doing more of a glare, but the frazzled guy still doesn’t seem happy with it.

“Alex, give it a break. He’s, what, fifteen? Kid likely doesn’t even know what you’re talking about,” a crew member seems to take mercy on him.

Another is not so forgiving and snorts, “Nah, kids start early these days, don’t you know?”

He doesn’t get it. He doesn’t get it. He’s fifteen, and he feels like he’s missing out on some sort of cosmic joke. Yuri would really like to leave, now.

. . .

Katsudon accompanies the Russian team to the European Championships at the end of January, though looking over their accumulated pile of luggage at the check-in, Yuri doesn’t doubt for a second that it’s only for Viktor’s sake. No way would Yuuri have come out all this way if his precious boytoy weren’t involved. ( _…right?_ )

Regardless, Yuri definitely won’t admit it, but – it’s kinda… _nice_ , having the Japanese man around. He gives a good counter-balance to Viktor’s crazy, to Mila’s nagging, and doesn’t seem to mind when Yuri flops on the bench in his general vicinity to check his Instagram feed when Yakov is being annoying.

_Ugh… stupid Katsudon, making me all sappy and shit._

Maybe that’s why it completely throws Yuri for a loop when the day of the short programs he stumbles over the couple _fighting_ , of all things, in one of the back rooms. Yuri had just been grabbing a spare hair clip and water bottle from the locker rooms when he hears the shouting.

Well, okay, maybe ‘shouting’ was a bit of an exaggeration, but after growing accustomed to the general lovey-doveyness of the two, anything less than total cheer whenever they address each other is disconcerting.

Like the carefully controlled, clenched way Yuuri is speaking in now. “Well maybe if you just _talked_ to me I wouldn’t _have_ to keep nagging you!”

Viktor isn’t much better though. Peering through the crack in the door, Yuri can see that he’s put on one of those stupid masks, that he’s closing himself off in a misguided attempt at protection. Yuri can understand those mechanisms, really he does, but he doesn’t know why in the world Viktor would feel the need to use it on his goddamn fiancé. He watches the pair a few minutes longer until Yuri thinks he knows where their issues stem from.

“You aren’t even in costume yet Viktor, you need to get – ”

“Oh just shut up, you aren’t my coach!”

_…now you did it, Viktor._

Yuuri turns away at those words and continues speaking in quiet tones, shoulders tight and arms crossed while Viktor keeps shooting him down; and honestly, how can the idiot not see that he’s just unwittingly made his boyfriend cry?! What other reason does he think Yuuri has for turning away other than not wanting to show his watery eyes to his fiancé, to hide his obvious vulnerability?

Suddenly mad, Yuri opens the door fully and throws the bottle (only half-full of water, yet still a worthy projectile) at Viktor’s shoulder, effectively breaking up the two squabblers. They both turn to him in shock.

“Yurio…”

“You made Katsudon cry. Go make it better,” he orders in a deadpan voice, pointing at the Japanese.

“He – “

Yuri doesn’t know if Viktor wants to justify himself or if he finally realized what he did to the love of his life, and quite frankly it doesn’t matter to Yuri. “I don’t care what shitty reason you think you had. You made Katsudon cry. Go hug him and apologize, or I will kick your ass.”

They stare at him for a moment as though Yuri were a ghost, before slowly facing each other. Viktor deflates like a popped balloon and sighs, glancing at Yuuri sheepishly, hesitantly taking a step closer. “Yuuri…”

The man in question glares at him for a moment longer, before exhaling and relaxing his stance a little, rubbing at one of his wet eyes angrily. “It’s alright, Viktor.” Yuri can’t believe he’s gonna let Viktor off the hook just like that after he acted like such a jerkface, and he’s not gonna let it pass.

“Apologize,” he growls at Viktor.

The man’s eyes widen, bet then steel in determination. He turns back to Yuuri. “I’m sorry, Yuuri. I really am.” The Japanese finally lowers his arms, breaking up the barrier between them, and Viktor uses it as his cue to step closer and gently trace a finger down the tear tracks on Yuuri’s face.

It’s so glaringly obvious neither of these two idiots know how to deal with crying people.

“I didn’t mean to make you cry. I don’t even know why…”

Yuri rolls his eyes and huffs. “Viktor is nervous about having you watch him back on the ice in competition for the first time, and Yuuri doesn’t know how to deal with you closing yourself off. Fucking idiots. Now go get ready.” He turns on his heel and ignores the stares following after him.

. . .

“Yuriiii~!!”

 _Oh,_ hell _no._

Who the fuck let the Angels in here? This area was supposed to be off limits for the general public, but apparently, after the conclusion of the competition, security must’ve gotten lax from the celebratory atmosphere.

Yuri mentally prepares himself to fill out autographs or even have a quick picture or two taken with his fans, but he is fully not prepared for what happens next.

“Yuri, I want to have your baby!

_…the fuck?!?_

He barely has time to brace himself before the tanned girl with Spanish accent and way too much cleavage has jumped him, and then all he can see is someone all up close in his face, moving closer, and feels the hand sneaked around him to grab at the flesh of his butt. Yuri pushes her away with all the force he can muster, right before their faces can crash into each other.

“ _Crazy fucking bitch!_ Get _off_ me!”

The girl stumbles, and in the next moment, security finally decides to do their fucking jobs, and another cloud of squealing teenagers are screeching off to the side. The hallway spins, and there’s still the crawling phantom sensation of a hand on his ass, and all Yuri wants to do is get _away_.

So, he brushes off the official asking him (way too unconcerned) whether he’s alright and storms into the locker rooms, pushing past two other skaters attempting to do the same.

“Now what was that all about, eh, Plisetsky?”

Yuri turns around to the guy, who he vaguely recognizes as some ice dancer from Ukraine. He doesn’t remember the name, only that he’s kind of a dick.

Unwilling to get into the topic, Yuri turns back to his bag.

The dude doesn’t seem to get the memo, continuing regardless. “Pretty lady like that gets all up in your face, and you just push the damsel away? You’ll have a hard time getting laid that way.”

Yuri growls, trying to ignore the man and failing. “Well, maybe I didn’t _want_ to get in bed with her.”

His team mate snickers from over at his locker. “Didcha see her tits? _I’d_ sure as fuck like to have a go with her, if you’re not interested.”

“Yea, bet she’d squeal like a stuck pig if you took her from behind.”

The atmosphere in the changing room turns heated and bawdy, a few others joining in on their snickering. A guy in the back offers, “Mine always sounds like this when I fuck her good,” and makes some obscene noises in the back of his throat.

Yuri feels sick.

He would’ve liked to take a shower and get all the post-competition sweat off, but now all he wants is to get out. He’ll just get changed at the hotel, then. That decided, he grabs his bag and quickly heads for the door.

“Oh, is the little kid embarrassed? Don’t know where to stick it yet?”

Two more steps…

“We could help you, show you how it’s done! Why don’t you stay around a little longer, pretty boy?”

And then finally, _finally_ he’s out the door and can drown out their voices with distance and the sound of his sneakers hitting the linoleum floor in quick succession. There’s bile rising up his dry throat, heart pounding away a mile a minute.

“Oh, Yura! There you are.”

Never in a hundred million years is Yuri gonna admit it, but he almost falters in relief when he hears Viktor’s voice and immediately heads over to the skater pair.

“Yurio. Everything alright?”

Yuri shrugs the question off, sticking his hands into the pocket of his training jacket. “Fine. Let’s just go.”

He doesn’t even protest when Viktor and Yuuri take him into their middle. Yuri knows they are exchanging a concerned look over his head, but he ignores it. He needs this, right now. They fall into comfortable conversation back on their way to the hotel, and Yuri decidedly doesn’t think about how safe he feels between the two of them.

. . .

Late January turns into the middle of February, and Yuuri looks positively baffled when Yuri shows up at the airport with them, heading to Four Continents at Taipei.

Really he should feel insulted after all they’ve been through together, but instead he just feels a little embarrassed and sort of nervous at Yuuri’s reaction. Did he read too far into their friendship? But then Yuuri is smothering him in one of those stupid squid-like bear hugs, the kind that gives Yuri trouble breathing from its tightness and the lump in his throat, and the Japanese coos excitedly over how nice it is to have both his favorite Russians accompany him to his competition.

Yuri is definitely not blushing. It’s just, you know… kinda hot in here. Really.

( _‘Both his favorite Russians’. There’s two of all the Russians who Yuuri prefers, and I’m one of them._ )

After the competition is over (Yuuri placing, naturally), Yuri somehow finds himself in a bar (slash pub slash what the hell does he know, he’s not even old enough to be drinking yet) with the other skaters; and he starts to regret letting himself get dragged along as he watches Yuuri and Viktor catch up with all their friends from the Grand Prix.

Otabek had had a slight knee injury and decided to skip Four Continents in favor of preparing for Worlds, and none of his usual Russians are around so he can’t even chat with Mila, annoying as she may be, so there’s no one Yuri really wants to talk to while listlessly sucking at the straw in his lemonade; chin propped up. At least none of those disgusting guys from the EC are around.

It’s not that Yuri is anti-social, but maybe he does feel just a little left-out, and bored, and kinda lonely. He briefly contemplates messaging his Kazakh friend. Sitting in the middle of a group of chatting people but texting with his one single friend two time zones away sounds _kind of_ pathetic, but maybe Beka might like to skype once he’s back at the hotel room. He kinda misses the guy already.

So Yuri’s about to slip away to head back when a hand snatches his arm and he’s dragged to a spot on the bench in the middle of Katsudon and the old man, the latter giving some kind of loud, goofy exclamation at his appearance.

“Yurio~! Excellent, I always wanted your opinion on this, because obviously pineapple is a thing that never in a billion years was meant to come into contact with pizza dough, but the thought of mayonnaise on it is even more disgusting so I would say – ” Viktor continues to ramble on drunkenly, never waiting for his reply, and really it’s a surprise he still has all of his clothes on the way he slurs his words and clings to his slippery cocktail glass.

Yuri wants to protest – in his new position he suddenly feels like he’s in the center of attention, it’s too noisy, everyone is too close – but then someone gently lays their arm around his shoulder and starts rubbing their hand over his upper arm inconspicuously. Yuri relaxes the slightest bit against his bench neighbor.

Katsudon doesn’t look over at him, but there’s a soft smile playing around his lips, and before Yuri knows it, he’s dragged into a conversation with that guy from Thailand and Chris, who for all means and purposes shouldn’t even be here, but showed up anyway, and it’s halfway through the night that Yuri notices he’s actually… _enjoying_ himself.

Viktor’s shoulder is warm, almost stifling against his in the humid room, and though he doesn’t drink, the atmosphere makes Yuri drowsy and he uses the excuse of being tired to let more of his weight rest against the Japanese man at his side.

It’s nice.

. . .

March rolls around, and with it Yuri’s 16th birthday.

His lips will stay sealed shut long after the deed, but he actually sort of has fun with all the geezers. It’s a long standing tradition at the rink to throw each other surprise birthday parties, and also a long standing tradition to pretend to be surprised about them.

“Happy sweet sixteenth, baby kitten!” Viktor yells and jumps in a split in front of the gathered group, birthday banner and all, as soon as Yuri enters the building and everyone throws streamers and balloons at him.

Mila picks him up and twirls Yuri above her head, completely ignoring his protests of ‘put me down, damn hag!!’. “Happy birthday, tiger!”

He grudgingly accepts Yuuri’s hug and quiet birthday wish next, then Georgi and Yakov and Lilia, while Viktor pretends to wipe away a tear and laments off in the corner. “They grow up _so_ fast~…”

Yakov eventually needles them into going back to training, but lunch break is when they get the cake out. The whole rink helped together the night before, and Yuri will find out later that it was Yuuri who kept them from burning down the kitchen since he’s the only one who actually knows how to bake cake. Still, the frosted monstrosity with the glaring pink script and ridiculously bad drawing of a tiger head is much preferred to any bought cake from a bakery.

Beka texts him and dedushka calls with well-wishes and to tell him that his leg is already doing much better.

Somehow, all the people around him almost manage to distract Yuri from the one person who doesn’t get in touch on his special day.

 _Screw her_ , he thinks, and realizes. _I’ve got my family right here._

. . .

" _I do not want... this carpet... to buy. Please_." He ends with his usual, customary I'm-a-Japanese-so-I-need-to-make-everything-sound-SO-fucking-polite, sounding confident, and Yuri sighs.

"Where to even fucking begin..."

"Did... did any of that make sense, like, at all?"

_As in, would the other person be telling you the way to the central station after that…?_

Yuri snorts elegantly. "No."

“No. Of course not.”

Yuuri nods sagely, and Yuri punches him lightly in the shoulder. “Okay, come on. Look at…”

As it turns out, Viktor is a horrible Russian teacher. Yuri finds out the hard way when he hears Yuuri trying to make an appointment at the vet for Makkachin, who’s gotten an infected tick bite somehow. ( _keyword:_ _trying_.)

While it _is_ admirable that Yuuri is learning a third language, complete with new alphabet and everything, at all, the atrocious grammar and botched pronunciation feel like a personal affront to Yuri. The Japanese’s sentences sound way too stilted, like he learned most of his vocabulary from a starter pack for tourists or the local news cast, which is probably about right.

“Viktor tries teaching me new phrases, but… he says he doesn’t really remember the grammar rules, that it either just ‘feels right’ or it doesn’t, and I mean… that’s not really helpful,” Yuuri confesses sheepishly.

_More like, Viktor is an airhead who may mean well but is way too inconsistent with his lessons. A.k.a.: He’s useless._

It’s a good thing Yuri’s own Russian classes at school aren’t two decades in the past, because he can’t stand to listen to Yuuri butchering his native tongue one more minute.

. . .

Three weeks later, and finally, the big finale of the season has arrived: The World Championships of ice skating, held in Boston, USA.

Yuri is ready; as ready as he’s ever gonna be. His body is fine-tuned to the very last bit, tendons stretched and eager, muscles vibrating, and yet –

And yet there’s that nagging shroud of nervousness at the back of his mind.

Everyone is looking at him. The whole world is looking at the prodigy, the upstart, the boy who dethroned Viktor Nikiforov and broke his World Record. He has a reputation to uphold now; everyone wants to see if he’s really the material of legend or if it was simply a fluke.

Naturally, ten minutes before warm-ups is when that damn nervous cough has to make a re-appearance, because that’s just his damn luck.

Yuri tries to stifle it into the sleeve of his jacket, but his throat is so dry and he can’t get his raspy breathing under control and –

and there’s arms suddenly wrapping around his waist from behind. Yuri barely has time to panic before he recognizes the presence. One hand grabs his own shaking ones in a light grip while the other one gently pushes down on his chest, drawing him back until he comes into contact with another body full of warmth and a steady heartbeat.

“Deep breaths,” Katsudon murmurs in his ear. Despite the almost-embrace, he’s really barely even touching Yuri, and yet his steadfast presence is enough for Yuri to relax and force his breathing back into submission with some harsh swallows.

The next second, Viktor is at his side and offering him an opened water bottle, the contents of which are blessedly cool against the sore flesh of his throat.

“I’ll wipe the floor with you two,” Yuri croaks when he hands it back, but the smirk on Viktor’s face doesn’t quite distract from the soft look in his eyes.

 _Agape, huh?_ Yuri wonders later, as his skates touch the ice and he slowly makes his way to the center of the rink, getting in position.

He distantly hears the music start, and simply lets himself glide into it.

_Yuuko’s texts. The triplets’ messages on Instagram._

_Lilia, shaping his hair into a braided masterpiece._

_Yakov, bending down on his old knees to check on Yuri worriedly when he doesn’t immediately get up after a flubbed jump._

The images flow through him like a never-ending river, soft and muted, yet guiding his steps.

Flying sit-spin…

_Mila, ruffling his hair. The (pling) sound of Otabek sending him a new, personalized playlist._

_The feel of Nika’s soft fur against his skin._

Step sequence, hands outstretched and waving at his sides.

_The smell of dedushka’s katsudon piroshky in his nose._

_Yuuri’s smile._

Quad salchow, triple toe loop.

_Viktor starting a pillow fight._

_The scent of warm Udon noodles and soy sauce in the air._

_Viktor and Yuuri, chatting outside the rink, turning and waving. Towards him._

Turn around and – quad toe loop, into the final steps…

_The poster hidden at the bottom of a forgotten desk drawer, of a Japanese beauty captured timelessly mid-jump, taken out and traced gently whenever the days are too long and Yuri’s strength too little._

Agape – to be loved unconditionally, and embraced with care.

Maybe, slowly, Yuri is starting to understand.

. . .

They all end up on the podium, Yuuri in first, Yuri second by a small margin, and Viktor third, still not quite in shape again ( _if he ever will be again_ , a small voice nags); and it’s testament to how used Yuri has grown to the other two’s presence in his life, on the ice with him, that it takes him a day to understand the possible repercussions.

“So… when’s the stupid dream wedding then, old man?”

Yuri tries to make the question sound nonchalant while Viktor helps him with his tie, but a clandestine look at the eyes above tell him how badly he’s failing at it.

Viktor stays silent for a moment, and somehow it’s the worst few seconds of Yuri’s life.

“We’ve decided to wait a little more. No worries, you’ll be ring bearer soon enough, Yurio,” he adds with a cheeky smile, though there’s something hidden in his expression.

“Huh?” Yuri exclaims. “What the fuck? Your piggy got his damn gold medal. What more could you possibly want?”

The older Russian tugs at the string of fabric one last time before straightening Yuri’s collar above it. Then he sighs, not looking at him. “Yuuri and I have agreed that maybe we shouldn’t rush into this. Yes, we love each other a lot, but we’ve barely know each other for over a year and only moved together four months ago. Yuuri wants to see how things work out a little longer before settling into something so permanent.”

Viktor finally lets off Yuri’s suit and turns around to the mirror to work on his own one.

“Besides,” he says, grin slowly forming, “the original condition was a GPF gold medal, so I will settle for nothing less!” Viktor taps a thoughtful finger against his chin. “Which won’t be easy, considering he’ll be up against a living legend next season.”

“…which would be?”

There’s a twinkle in his eye. “Why, Viktor Nikiforov, of course! _You_ still have to earn that title, little tiger!”

Figures, that those two dorks would use such a stupid prerequisite for something as terribly unrelated as _marriage_ , of all things, but somehow… Yuri’s glad.

“You two are such fucking losers.”

. . .

~*~*~

. . .

One sunny, beautiful off-season day, Yuri wakes up with growing pains, and from there on, his very own personal hell begins.

He doesn’t even know how it happens. One day he’s fine, the next there’s this _ache_ burning all the way through his bones, settling deep down in the marrow. And as if the pain wasn’t bad enough, he gets growth spurt after growth spurt, gaining a good couple centimeters in just two weeks.

Yuri just wants to tear his hair out.

The new height is screwing up his jumps big time, and it feels like his entire coordination just went out the window with the arrival of his new, gangly limbs. Everything feels awkward, clumsy; and Yuri _hates_ it.

Hates the way his body is suddenly turning against him when things were going _so well_ , hates that he can’t control it the way he can control other aspects of his life, hates Katsudon and the geezer’s unhelpful comments and Yakov’s frustrated grumbling, as though this were somehow _Yuri’s_ fault.

April slowly witnesses his downfall, May leaves him snappy; with more bruises and aching bones than he can handle and some half-assed fragments of ideas for new routines still floating through the ether.

So when at the end of the month, Otabek finally takes mercy on him and proposes he come visit for a few weeks, Yuri jumps on it.

. . .

Being with the older Kazakh is a lot like simply… breathing. It’s nice.

Otabek is uncomplicated and frank to the point where Yuri wonders how he ever managed to maneuver around Viktor and Yuuri’s veiled communication attempts or Lilia’s flowery and nonsensical language (“ _Beauty is a crushing force of righteousness”_?! Like… _really?_ ), and accepts Yuri into his life without a fuss. They still spend a good portion of their time at the rink or doing workouts, but seeing as Yuri is still struggling with his coordination and the constant growing pains make him snap in frustration more often than not when he flubs a jump, they make sure to enrich their daily lives with other things, too. Yuri is glad Otabek is willing to let his own training slide a little for Yuri’s sake, at least for the three weeks of his stay.

It doesn’t take the two of them long to find a routine: After waking up on Beka’s surprisingly comfy couch, their morning starts with stretches and coffee (which Yuri drinks way too sweet, and Beka not sweet enough), then a quick breakfast at the corner bakery before heading to the rink. After a few hours of skating, workout, and a light jog home to Otabek’s apartment to unwind, they shower and use the rest of the day to explore the city.

Before his flight, Yuri wouldn’t even have been able to point to Almaty on a map if he’d tried. Within the first day, he finds out Almaty used to be called Alma-Ata and is actually the largest city in Kazakhstan, even though it’s not the capital any longer. It’s right at the edge of a national park, is known for its financial exports, and lies in a region that’s apparently thought to be the ancestral home of the wild apple.

None of these facts really matter quite as much to Yuri as which stores sell cat-print shirts, though, which the two of them find out during their second day, or what the bustling city looks like at night when a hundred thousand blinking and shivering lights drown out the night-sky above.

Well, okay, maybe the national park thing is kinda cool. There’s a big mountain range, called the Trans-Ili Alatau, which is visible from almost any point in the city, it’s so damn huge.

“Not used to the sight, huh?”

“Shut up. So what?”

“Nothing. I just keep forgetting you’re a lowland-boy.”

“The hell is _that_ supposed to mean, idiot?”

Yea, the area around St Petersburg is flat, very flat, but so what. At least they have the port, and sea-gulls, and fresh ocean air. Regardless, Yuri is quite excited when they rent two bikes (the normal, unmotorized kind – it’s a substitute for that day’s workout) and head to the mountains for the weekend. The air is warm enough by then to sleep without a tent, and Otabek promises him the view will be worth the effort.

“I used to take my little sister out here every summer when we were younger. We’d race each other on the last bit with the bikes, and whoever lost had to collect the firewood for that night,” Otabek narrates in his calm, deep voice. He’s not even breaking a sweat, and Yuri kind of envies him. He’s not used to the heat, and his shoulder-length hair is sticking to his neck uncomfortably.

“How old is she?”

“Sveta? Fifteen.”

It’s noon, and the sun is shining high in the sky. Yuri decides it’s time for a water break.

“Why did you stop? Coming up here, I mean.”

“Well, you know how it is. Fifteen year-old girls seem to have better things to do than…”

Otabek bends forward and leans his arms on the handlebar as he talks. It’s not immediately obvious in this position, but Yuri has grown to be almost as tall as him, which he has found to be not a good thing especially concerning his jumps and step sequences. Still, the Kazakh has more muscle than him, broader shoulders, a stockier build. A sharp jawline contrasts against the soft colors of the landscape, and he has started to grow his top hair out, even if the undercut remains.

 _Is this what girls find attractive?_ Yuri wonders with a jolt.

There’s a single drop of sweat rolling down Otabek’s throat and vanishing in the collar of his dark shirt. He remembers reading once, in the comment section under some older skater’s picture post-workout, about girls wanting to lick the guy’s sweaty skin, among other lewd things. He looks at Otabek and only thinks that they’ll probably both be in dire need of a shower once they get back.

_Does that mean that I’m not into guys?_

_…but I’m not into girls either. They’re annoying, and squeal too much. And what the hell is anyone supposed to do with boobs?!_

Yuri’s never really thought about himself as gay. If anything, he’s been much too busy focusing on practice to pant after any hot boys. But then, why has he felt a small jolt in his tummy anytime Otabek had casually touched him throughout the week, be it a casual arm around his shoulder, the welcome-hug at the airport, or their hands brushing against each other as they walked? Why has he caught himself staring at Otabek’s lips once, wondering what they’d feel like pressed against his?

Yuri is _so_ confused.

“Yuri?”

“Huh?” Beka is looking at him expectantly, and he realizes he must’ve spaced out. “Oh, sorry. What were you saying?”

The Kazakh regards him curiously for a moment, and somehow, Yuri feels stripped entirely naked under that gaze. It’s a relief when Otabek sets his bike in motion again, break over, and continues the conversation.

“I asked if you would like to meet my family next week. Sveta has been excited to see you. She doesn’t know many people with blonde hair, so when I told her about it she immediately announced she wants to braid it.”

“Oh.” Yuri absently rakes a hand through his strands, which have grown down to his shoulders by now. Otabek has told him a lot about his family during the half year they were sending each other messages, and Yuri was actually really looking forward to finding out about where the older boy grew up, what his family is like. Now, however, the thought makes him strangely nervous. Would they notice he was maybe sort of crushing-not-crushing on their son? He feels like a little schoolgirl, all of a sudden. “Oh! Sure! I’d love to.”

The rest of the journey, the conversation switches to different topics, and by the time evening rolls around, they’ve reached a good spot to set up camp. To honor the old tradition, Yuri insists on racing up the last hill, and ends up sweaty, laughing, and pathetically in last place. The chilly wind is a balm on his feverish skin as he’s looking for spare logs for their campfire.

They set up the sleeping bags from their bag packs, heat up a quick dinner, and afterwards sit down at an outcrop overlooking the city below with the fire warming their backs.

“It’s… beautiful,” Yuri murmurs, and as cheesy as it sounds, it really is. Almaty lays stretched below them, a cobweb sea of light in the oncoming darkness of the night, while a hint of purple above the mountains to the West is setting an almost surreal mood.

“It is,” Otabek agrees.

Yuri sighs and folds his legs up against his chest, wrapping his arms around them snugly.

From what he knows, this is what anyone might call a ‘romantic situation’ – the sunset, the view, the fire crackling in the background and crickets chirping – but somehow, when he glances at his friend from the corner of his eye, all Yuri can think about is how these weird thoughts keep trying to ruin a satisfying evening for him. He’s warm, and exhausted with that bone-deep, warm ache that lets him know he did well that day, and he just wants to enjoy the feeling of unfamiliar, mesmerizing nature all around him, but these unwelcome worries keep crowding into his mind.

Should he try to flirt with Beka? Is that what’s expected of him? He’s not even sure if he _likes_ guys, damnit. Does he want Otabek to sit closer to him?

Yuri’s heart keeps pounding away in his throat, and he just feels so done with all of this. Fuck growing up.

Otabek has stayed quiet, likely noticing with that observant way of his that Yuri has something on his mind. Maybe… So far, there has never been a single circumstance where Yuri thought he could not talk with Beka about something. It’s a part of who Otabek is, and a part of what shapes their friendship – that they’re honest about everything, that they’re open when necessary and don’t judge each other. Maybe the best path on this particular mountain is straight-forward.

Otabek is older than him, and more experienced. Maybe he can help Yuri untangle some of the confusion that has settled over him.

“Hey, Beka…” Yuri starts eventually, and stubbornly keeps his gaze to the front. Non-judgmental as his friend may be, this conversation is still different from admitting to being scared before a competition or something like that. “How… how do you know if you’re into someone or not?”

He awaits the answer with baited breath, not daring to let his eyes stray from a blinking red light down below.

“I don’t know.” The admission is unexpected, but Otabek continues before Yuri has much time to figure out its meaning. “I’m aromantic.”

“Huh? You’re what?!”

Finally, Yuri’s gaze snaps over, to find Otabek watching him with a relaxed face, though he thinks he can see the slightest bit of apprehension in his eyes.

“Aromantic. It means I don’t date, or have romantic relationships with anyone.”

Yuri stares a little, until he realizes that might be impolite.

“But… why?”

_Aromantic?_

He was expecting maybe a gentle but firm rejection, or a stuttered confession of some sort, or maybe a completely clinical explanation about turn-ons and turn-offs similar to when Yakov (bless his old soul) had tried to give Yuri the talk about the birds and bees, but this… throws him for a loop, to be quite honest.

“Why is the grass green and the sky blue?” Otabek asks in return, and stretches his arms above his head contentedly.

Yuri decides to dig a little deeper into the unfamiliar topic. “So, does that mean you’ve never wanted to… kiss someone, or, or… have sex with them?”

His dark-haired friend hums for a moment before replying. “Not really, no. It actually just sounds kind of repulsive, to me. Wanting to share body fluids with other people.”

And _yea, when you put it that way…_

Though then again, Yuri thinks of the few moments of gentle intimacy he’s witnessed between Viktor and Yuuri. Not the countless, obviously exaggerated instances of PDA initiated mostly by Viktor, but rather the quiet ones, when they stand close to each other, when they embrace or share sweet little kisses and private smiles, and he can’t help wondering what that’s like. The warmth, the proximity. Feeling safe and comforted inside someone else’s arms.

What does that make him?

He looks at Otabek from the corner of his eyes, at the strong muscles of his arms that he knows are hidden underneath the jacket, and thinks of the scent of leather and sandalwood.

_Do I want that? Do I not? Do I wanna kiss Otabek? Am I gay?_

Fuck it, he’s so confused.

“I prefer having close relationships with friends, people I can talk to about anything. That’s all I really need.”

“Is that… what we are?”

“I would hope so.”

They’re quiet for a bit while Yuri’s mulling things over. Maybe… finding out Otabek simply doesn’t date is kind of a relief. That means he can stop asking himself these questions about whether or not he’s into him, right?

“Yura… do you have a crush on me?”

Yuri gasps and whips his head around. How the hell can Otabek just ask that so stoically, without even blushing?! “I – I don’t know,” Yuri admits with a puff of air, surprising even himself with his honesty. He turns back to glare at his knees stubbornly, which is much easier than looking at his friend in that moment. “I mean, that’s why I asked in the first place. I don’t… ugh, why is growing up so fucking complicated?!” He clenches his clammy, trembling hands in frustration, a deep frown set on his brow.

To his surprise, Beka silently extends his arm in invitation, and Yuri gratefully lets himself be pulled against the man, nudging closer. The scent of sandalwood intensifies, and Yuri quietly hopes he doesn’t smell too badly of day-old sweat. “It’s okay if you do, Yura,” Otabek reassures. “I don’t mind. I just want you to know I won’t be able to act on it. You mean a lot to me, and I want us to be honest with each other so that no one gets hurt.”

… _how did I deserve this guy as a friend, again?_

Yuri is baffled. Here he was, hoping for an awkward conversation at best and a ruined evening at worst, and what he gets instead is a friend selflessly trying to help him figure things out. Yuri hesitantly wraps his arms around Otabek’s waist and buries his nose deep in the leather jacket, releasing a slightly shaky breath.

“Is it normal to not want to have sex at my age?” he asks, voice kinda small. Why not make the most of the situation and get some questions answered? Otabek seems pretty knowledgeable about this stuff. “I feel like everyone’s expecting me to be horny about girls, or at least guys if not that, but I’m just… not?”

“Well, I don’t know about ‘normal’. Norm implies there’s some kind of standard you need to adhere to. Some people do want sex, and others just don’t. There’s nothing else to it. Maybe you’re a late bloomer, maybe you’re asexual.”

“A- what?”

Otabek chuckles, and the sound of it rumbles through Yuri’s head. “You’re really new to all these terms, huh? I guess I shouldn’t even start about platonic cuddle buddies then.”

“Platonic- huh?!”

“Asexual is someone who doesn’t want to have sex, for whatever reason. Like… they don’t experience sexual attraction?”

Yuri thinks about it. It kind of… fits, at least for now. Maybe that’s something he ought to look into. “So, back to the cuddle buddies. …what exactly is the commitment level of that?”

“That’s up to choice. For some, it’s little more than friendship; for others, it’s the person they want to spend the rest of their lives with.”

“Huh.”

Yuri thinks about Otabek’s warm, comforting arms around him. “Are we… cuddle buddies?” he asks hesitantly.

“Only if you want us to be.” The Kazakh leans back a little so he can see Yuri’s face and carefully wipes a strand of blonde hair behind his ear. His next words are gentle, and startlingly raw. “Yuri… I don’t expect anything from you. I care a lot about you, and I want to see you grow into your own person. Adolescence is a confusing time, and I won’t hold it against you if you find someone you want to try out things with. I just can’t be that person for you. If, in the meantime, you need somebody to talk to, I’m here for you. Okay?”

He swallows. “Yea… sounds about good. Same to you, Beka.”

Yuri is incredibly grateful for having Otabek, who’s really just another guy his age, someone who’s on his level and seems to have gone through similar stuff; someone he can afford to let himself be vulnerable around and who’s not gonna judge. He leans his head back against Beka’s chest and takes a deep, calming breath.

“Heh… ‘an aromantic and an asexual sit on a mountain’. Sounds like the start of a bad joke,” Yuri teases.

“ _You’re_ a bad joke, Plisetsky.”

Yea. Things are gonna be alright between them.

. . .

Viktor is the one who picks him up at the airport; the air in St Petersburg for once in a blue moon stifling with summer heat. Yuri cranks up the AC and throws his crossed legs over the dashboard.

“You know I could’ve taken a cab.”

“How was Almaty?” Viktor asks in lieu of a reply and lowers the volume of the radio.

Yuri shrugs. “Great.”

“Everything alright with you and Beka?”

“…yes?” The hell is Viktor going on about? There’s this strange look on his face as the older man pretends to be paying attention to the traffic (he’d _better_ be, Yuri thinks a little cautiously).

Well, okay. Maybe Yuri has been a little too obvious in his little crush on Otabek, before. It’s sort of undeniable they’ve got chemistry, in their own way. Still… Yuri doesn’t really feel like talking to Viktor about it. What happens up on the Trans-Ili Alatau, stays on the Trans-Ili Alatau, and all that.

Viktor seems to take his silence in stride and quickly changes the subject. “Aw, Yurio~! You even got freckles in the Kazakh sun!”

_What?!_

Yuri throws his hands up over his nose in a desperate attempt to hide. Viktor must be fucking joking?!

“So cute,” the man coos, looking decidedly too little at the road and too much at Yuri’s face. “We should grab some ice cream on the way back, then!” And okay, Yuri has no idea how Viktor just made _that_ connection, but it’s not like he’s gonna complain about free ice cream.

Or the fact that after grabbing a few tubs of the stuff, Viktor pulls into the garage under his own apartment building rather than Lilia’s mansion. Nika is waiting for him at the skater couple’s place, anyway, and he really wants to see her again. That’s all.

Nothing to do with seeing Yuuri’s face light up at the sight of caramel-swirl vanilla ice cream, _no sir_.

. . .

Regardless how much Almaty helped distract him from his troubles, however, everything hits home again the next time he goes to the rink to practice. Where before flying to Almaty, Yuri had just been trying out some new step sequences and jump combinations, he now has to actually focus on getting together a program, or at the very least finally decide on a _theme_ , but Yuri’s just – blank. Nothing, nada.

Yuri slumps on the bleachers frustratedly, taking some time to cool off after blowing up at Yakov _again_ when he couldn’t even land his quad salchow.

A salchow.

_Him._

A fucking _salchow_.

It’s all he can think about nowadays, the way he’s constantly struggling with his body rather than strutting ahead with confident steps, the way he used to. Gone is the pleasant consistency with which he used to fly through spin combinations with ease, the surety of his body responding exactly the way Yuri trained it to through years of rigorous exercise. Replaced by shaking limbs and floppy free legs and a total lack of balance and flexibility, as though someone took the real Yuri one chilly April night and replaced him with this… impostor.

_Fuck adolescence._

Viktor kneels behind him and slings an easy arm around his neck, and by then Yuri is just too tired to push him off. The elder asks, “Why don’t you turn that into your theme for next season? ‘Growth’? Use it to come to terms with it.”

“That’s a stupid-ass suggestion.”

Naturally, for lack of a better idea, he decides to go with it.

Yakov rolls with it, and so, Yuri is supposed to take this season’s program as an outlet to ‘find himself’, whatever the hell that’s supposed to mean. The short program, a slow, classical piece that Lilia has agreed to choreograph for him representing the search, and his free skate about what it is that he finds.

It’s philosophical, poetic and fucking sappy, and Yuri hates it almost as much as the fact that Yakov is making him do the choreography for his free skate by himself.

Needless to say, it’s a disaster.

Yuri spends days upon days on the ice, trying out different things and sticking together elements at random, and yet nothing really seems to flow the way it used to. _Sit-spin, opening up into a spiral, hand outstretched, reaching for – for what?!_

“Those were some good steps, Yurio, but what were you trying to express with them?”

Viktor, master-choreographer extraordinaire, questions as he’s sliding past.

“How the fuck am I supposed to know?!” Yuri explodes.

It’s not like he can describe what he’s searching for before he’s found it. Yuri is absolutely fucking clueless. The next question is as fitting as it is unhelpful.

“Who is it that you want to be?”

Before now, Yuri has never had to question _who_ he is. Russia’s fairy, the ice skating prima ballerina, graceful, dainty, a vision of beauty and elegance – that is who the audience wanted to see in him, and before now, he’d never had a problem to deliver.

Trust his body to throw a monkey wrench into all that.

Yuuri pats his shoulder with that never-ending amount of ignorant optimism. “Hang in there, Yurio! You’ll figure it out.”

. . .

Funnily enough, though, spending time with the gross couple quickly becomes the only ray of light at his horizon. Viktor and Yuuri get that he doesn’t really want to talk about his program when he comes over to their place, that he just needs some time _off_.

Yuri picks up Yuuri’s Russian lessons from where they left off before Almaty, and in turn, Yuuri teaches him how to cook some simple Japanese dishes. Yuri is proud to say he doesn’t fail quite as catastrophically in the kitchen as Viktor does. He’s had to cook for himself for years now, and Yuuri is supremely happy to have a willing student who doesn’t burn everything he so much as _looks_ at. Viktor gets banned from the room to walk Makkachin, looking decidedly like a kicked puppy. ( _Viktor_ , that is.)

He’s lying on the couch zapping through possible music choices for his free skate on Youtube when Yuuri comes over to sit on the arm of the couch next to him, cup of tea in hand. Makkachin is giving a grunt from the floor before exposing her belly, and Yuuri lets his slippered feet rub it absently.

“Honestly, by this point in time, I’d say just take a random one and stick with it,” Yuuri advices, looking over his shoulder onto the screen. “Making the choreography might come easier if you at least have a rhythm and general structure to work with, even if you haven’t yet decided on what story you want to tell.”

He gently reaches for Yuri’s phone with a ‘can I?’ and types something into the search bar when the Russian acquiesces. Yuuri taps on a video and hands the device back to him.

“How about this one?”

Yuri listens in for a bit. It’s an entirely instrumental piece; he can recognize a guitar, piano, some kind of wood wind instrument… a rhythmic part with different sorts of drums in the middle, playful at times, then driving and agitated again, culminating in a grand finale. It’s a good song, a blank canvas, for whoever knew what to paint on it. Vague enough that Yuri won’t have to decide on anything definite yet, but there are some ideas already forming in his mind to a few sections.

Yuri sucks on his lower lip, nodding absently.

. . .

Despite the new structure the song has given the elements of his free skate, when they head to the seamstress a week later to decide on their costume, Yuri still has no idea what exactly it is he’s trying to express with it. So he sticks to simple designs, allows Lilia to decide for his short and, since he’s not really able to explain the theme of his free at all, just lets the seamstress go with whatever she can come up with.

That’s how, when the Russian national team plus Yuuri go to pick up their new outfits two weeks later, Yuri ends up neck-deep in black and turquoise spandex littered with little spirally leaves up one side and across his collarbones.

Leaves.

Him.

He’s gonna dance as a fucking tree, just because he can’t figure out what ever the hell ‘growth’ means to him.

A tasteful, classy tree, mind you, but a tree none the less.

“Well… it’s certainly – well, different from the usual,” Viktor cogitates from the side, hand on his chin, while Mila is doing a very bad job of keeping in her snorts. “Brings out your eyes.”

Yuri turns around and fixes Viktor with a deadpan glare.

“It’s a tree.”

“Well, when you say it _that_ way…”

“I’m gonna be dancing. As a tree.”

By that time, most of the team has gathered round to witness the exchange taking place and even Lilia has poked her head around the corner to throw a withering glance his way. The seamstresses are bustling in the background, undisturbed by the entire drama and adjusting something on Georgi’s costume.

The audience probably won’t have any idea what he’s even doing on the ice, and neither will Yuri.

“…a _fucking_ TREE, Viktor!!”

. . .

It’s as he’s gobbling down a plate full of delicious Japanese-something that it hits him.

_“Eat, eat, Yura! You’re a growing boy, you can use it!”_

A growing boy.

It’s all that food that’s making him keep growing. Right? And Yuri so, so desperately wants it to stop.

Wants to stay that small, fragile prima forever, the little fae that the audience just gobbles up. Graceful, delicate, petite; with bones of glass.

There’s really only one way to go about it, then.

“Yura?” Viktor asks concernedly when Yuri’s chopsticks ( _finally_ , he’d gotten used to the damn things) freeze halfway to his mouth.

He hurriedly stuffs the noodles between his lips and mumbles a quick ‘nothing’, despite the way the food suddenly tastes like ash in his mouth.

. . .

The GPF qualifiers are approaching fast, and Yuri is so not ready.

Nothing’s really working out, his stupid body just won’t listen to him; he feels like he’s constantly hungry after cutting down on his meal sizes, but tries to drown the feeling with a few liters of water a day and by distracting himself with training and runs.

“Leave it, Yuri. You can’t pull those off with how shaky your coordination still is,” Yakov yells from over at the boards.

Yuri curses and picks himself up from the ground again, gliding around the rink to brush it off. Damnit… the way things are going, he’s not gonna be able to use any Tano jumps in the Grand Prix.

“Forget the ballerina. Show the audience some force instead!” Seeing him struggling with his program, Yakov has definitely been _trying_ to give Yuri some suggestions as to what he could turn his body into, tried to give the boy who used to be one of his best some guidance, but none of the things he suggests are really _him_ at all.

Stupid Mila has to pipe in from the side, never knowing when to keep her mouth shut. “That’s right, tiger. Show them what a strong young man you’re turning into! Maybe switch your tree costume to a crop top?” Yuri angrily slaps her hands away when they lift his shirt and try to poke at his ( _ugh_ ) developing abs there. He thinks of standing in front of the long bathroom mirror at home earlier, looking at all the flesh that is bulging rather than lean and delicate and just… wanting to push it back in, where it belongs. He bets _Vitya_ wasn’t this disgustingly buff looking at his age, fucking perfect little fairy.

“Fuck those muscles!” he snaps at Mila. “Brute strength isn’t gonna help me shit when I keep screwing everything up! What the audience wants is _perfection_ , and none of this shit is fucking perfect!” Yuri kicks the ice with his toe pick.

So really, he can’t quite be blamed for seeking comfort at Viktor and Yuuri’s place so often, to get away from everything for a while.

Yuri’s mood swings are at an all-time high, so he often recedes into himself, but then his stupid hormones make everything go haywire again and suddenly he’ll be reaching out for comfort and proximity. It’s a constant up-and-down, yet Viktor and Yuuri somehow take it all in stride, even offering him to stay the night when he doesn’t want to go back to Yakov and Lilia’s and distracting him with movies and games when they have the time.

Another thing Yuri is slowly starting to get used to is the physical contact.

He’s wary at first – once bitten, twice shy, as they say. Yuri is not accustomed to getting touched, or even _wanting_ to be touched (with the exception, maybe, of Otabek; but that’s another story). He’s used to people learning to keep their distance from him early on. But with time he notices how much he actually craves the affection, the gentle touches he stopped getting from his mother early on and rarely received from his grandpa who lived all the way over in Moscow. Yakov doesn’t really count as much of a substitute, either.

So yes, at first he whines and bitches whenever the ridiculous pair decide to force their attention on him, but over time that changes to giving quiet grumbles that are more for show than anything, until eventually, he has to stop himself from finding reasons for them to touch him, to get a pat on the back or an easy arm around his shoulder; Viktor clinging to him like an octopus whenever he gets excited (like a force of nature – unstoppable once he sets his mind to glomp-mode).

“Should we wake him? It’s getting late…“

“Shh… he probably needs the rest. He can stay on the couch again, it’s comfy enough.”

_…huh?_

The first thing Yuri becomes aware of is the pleasant tingling of his scalp and warmth against his cheek. It takes him a moment to identify the feeling as fingers carding through his hair softly. He vaguely remembers watching some shitty movie that Viktor insisted on, then… nothing.

The touch against his head is soothing, and whatever he is lying against is pleasant and comfortable and moderately steady, so Yuri has a hard time rousing himself. He’s almost on his way back under when the voices continue.

“…he’s completely tuckered out, isn’t he?”

A deep, serene hum, rumbling through his ears. “It’s been a long day for him.”

Oh, was it ever. His muscles still scream in protest remembering the torture Yakov put them through. Now, everything is soft and muted and far away, and Yuri feels almost as though he were floating, suspended in space.

He’s startled from his peaceful state when something changes, breathing picking up in momentary panic, but then Yuuri makes a calming noise and the movement settles. He realizes there’s a new touch, on his legs, which must be lying across someone’s lap now. Thumbs dig into his calves in a light massage, easing the deep-set ache.

The hand in Yuri’s hair slides down a bit and then there’s fingers tucking the blonde tresses behind his ear, knuckles tracing first the shell of it, then across a high cheekbone. Yuri’s lashes flutter softly against them.

“Shh… go back to sleep, Yurio,” Yuuri whispers from above him. Yuri probably has his head on the Japanese man’s lap, but he’s much too tired to be embarrassed. He snuggles down into Yuuri’s warmth, exhausted, and the next time he wakes he’s alone on the couch and it’s five in the morning, blanket wrapped snugly around him.

That’s usually the time when he’d go for a long run to burn some unwanted calories, but Yuri’s just too comfortable and the blanket is covering him in all the right places, so he decides to nap a little longer. Viktor and Yuuri will wake him up on time.

. . .

Neither of the three mentions the incident in the days following, but somehow, it becomes a regular thing for him to crash on the cushions with one of his body parts touching at least one of the two, and due to his rigorous training it’s not unusual for Yuri to randomly fall asleep in that position. He wouldn’t mind, really, if it weren’t for…

_Ugh, stupid Katsudon; stop moving already, I’m trying to take a nap here…_

“Shh, Yuuri. You must stay still,” Viktor’s wise voice rings from the side, disturbing the peaceful quiet. “Don’t you know? Once a cat has deemed you an acceptable sleeping place, you mustn’t disturb it under any circumstance!”

It’s a good thing Yuri’s hand has randomly ended up on top of a pillow, because this way Yuri can easily grip it and fling it in the ugly geezer’s face in retaliation for the comment. “What is it with everyone comparing me to a _goddamn_ _cat?!_ ” he grumbles, keeping his heavy eyes closed and his left leg decidedly slung over Yuuri’s stomach.

It turns into sort of a running gag, and naturally, when it becomes clear the two idiots won’t let it go Yuri tries to make the most of it whenever he can, making it a point to trample all over them whenever he wants to sit at the end of the couch or ending up perched on high surfaces and scaring the shit out of Yuuri when he walks into the room.

_I’ll give them ‘kitten’._

“Yuri, no.”

_Budge._

“ _Yuri._ ”

_Budge._

“No.”

_Budge, budge._

“Yuuuri.”

_Pause._

_Sliiiideeee…. budge – crash._

The pencil case’s contents scatter all over the floor.

“Yuri, goddamn it.”

“Language, Viktor.”

Maybe, there’s just a hint of truth in it, though. It usually takes Yuri a while to warm up to strangers; he’s wary at first, values his independency and has a knack for curling up in odd places. Yuri can be grumpy and untouchable at times, but deep down is actually very soft and needy. (And then there was that one time he was unconsciously rubbing his head against Yuuri’s shoulder wanting to feel those fingers against his scalp again, until he realized what he was doing and that Yuuri did, too. He was about to pull away and bury himself in the ground in shame, really, but then those scratches started behind his ears and, _well_.)

He’s not the only one with odd quirks in this patchwork household, though.

Yuuri’s are kind of adorable and for the most part easily hidden (like all the Viktuuri merchandise Yuri knows he’s collecting), but of course Viktor has to be ridiculous and extra in anything he does.

Yuri’s lost count how many times the couple had a fight about Viktor’s cleaning habits. It’s not that he simply _doesn’t_ (the way he never does the fucking dishes), it’s more that the older Russian is so messy most of the time but then suddenly needs to have some things in a very specific order seemingly completely at random.

It takes some getting used to, Yuri thinks while kicking one of Makka’s bones to the side, passing Yuuri who is staring at the open kitchen cabinet, eyebrow twitching. All the muesli and noodle packages have been diligently moved onto the counter to make space for a multitude of carefully arranged solar powered dancing toys on the shelf boards, merrily teetering back and forth on their little plastic pedestals in the morning light. Viktor is, of course, nowhere in sight.

Yuuri fists a hand against his hip and takes a deep breath while Yuri leans around him to snag an apple. The ravenette purses his lips before nodding to himself, seemingly giving up trying to understand how his husband-to-be’s brain works.

Yuri snaps a picture while crunching on his snack merrily.

**Look at what the old man has time for at night. You could think he never sleeps, bloody vampire. _(picture attached)_**

 “Texting Otabek?”

Yuri nods absently, already reading his friend’s reply and grinning. Yuuri sits on the bar stool next to him and starts peeling a banana, watching Yuri carefully.

“You two seem… close,” he not-asks. The older man seems to be aiming for nonchalance and failing spectacularly.

It’s not really a question, but Yuri glances at Yuuri anyway, blushing slightly under the sudden close scrutiny. “Well… yea? We’re friends,” he mumbles. Why the sudden interest?

Yuuri nods again, before pausing and questioning hesitantly. “Are you… I mean, is he… your special person?”

_Oh._

Yuri freezes, then bites into his apple again to give himself more time to think. How much does he want to share with the other skater? A few months ago, when Viktor had asked him about Beka, he’d clammed up immediately; but some time has passed since then, they’ve grown closer, and anyway – this is _Yuuri_. It’s not like he’s gonna shout it from the rooftops.

He swallows the piece of fruit and replies. “Beka is… aromantic. He doesn’t date.” Yuuri’s eyes widen slightly in realization, but he doesn’t press for more, which Yuri is grateful for. “Keep that to yourself, though.”

“Is it okay if…”

“ _Jeesh_ , yes. Tell the geezer. I know you disgusting people never keep secrets, anyway. Just keep your husband in check from flaunting it around.”

“Not my husband yet.”

“Whatever. Dunno why you’d care about Beka, anyway…”

. . .

For every bit that Yuri’s own body is betraying him, Yuuri and Viktor’s routines grow more gorgeous.

They’ve decided to co-coordinate them this season, since it is the first time the pair are both coming up with new programs since getting together. They say they are telling one full story, only in two parts; and of course, it’s a fucking love story. Both their short program and free skate are interwoven, tangled, yet different enough from each other that it’s clear they’re both out for the win on their own terms. It’s like both offering their very own perspective on the same topic, their relationship; each beautiful in their own right, and yet fitting together like puzzle pieces when seen in succession.

Yuri sometimes watches them from the edge of the rink enviously while rubbing his bruises.

. . .

And then –

It’s stupid, really. Just one tiny little stupid mistake, and it costs him everything.

There’s only a scant few days left before Yuri’s first qualifier at Skate America, and nothing’s really working out yet. He can sort of get through his routines decently well, but compared to Worlds that year – well, it’s a fucking joke.

_I’ve got to get better, I have to –_

He’s been going through his short program for hours now, ignoring Yakov’s frequent yells to take a break. Yuri is tired from a late night run when insomnia was keeping him up, and his breakfast consisted of a single sports drink. The only good part was that, somehow, neither Viktor nor Yuuri seemed to have picked up on his irregular eating habits yet, because he has a feeling he’d get a good scolding for it. Yuri pants, out of breath from his last step sequence, and prepares for the jump.

It’s clear from the moment Yuri’s feet leave the ground in what is supposed to be a triple toe loop that he fucked up.

The colors of the rink fly past his eye, and then a sudden bout of dizziness hits and everything tilts sideways. Then all he knows is a heavy impact followed by a screeching sting zapping through his leg.

“Yuri!” he hears someone yell when he keeps lying on the ice, clenching his teeth.

Yakov and Viktor take him to the hospital, where after a torturous examination and x-rays the doctor finally gives the verdict: A grade one sprained left ankle. Everyone is silent until the nurse has been by with the discharge papers and a set of crutches. As soon as she has wandered back out through the door, Yakov announces, “Well, this is it, then. Are you proud of yourself, Yuri?”

The lack of the usual diminutive stings, but Yuri doesn’t let himself get distracted by it, growls through clenched teeth. “The fuck is that supposed to mean?!”

“It means I’ve watched you self-destruct long enough. If you hadn’t been pushing yourself so much – ”

“Pushing myself has nothing to do with this, it’s not my fault this stupid body isn’t – ”

“Do you think I haven’t seen how long you’ve spent practicing at the rink? The early morning runs? Late nights at Lilia’s studio? How thin you’ve gotten?!”

He can hear Viktor suck in a quiet breath, but he doesn’t have time to focus on him right now.

“Fuck you, old man! How else am I supposed to get ready for the GPF in time?!” Yakov’s face is a deep shade of red by that point, and Yuri can see a vein pulsing at his expletive. Him yelling at the geezer is nothing unusual, but with a sinking feeling in his gut he thinks he really might’ve done it this time. _Fuck this. Fuck all of it._

“Well you sure as hell aren’t going to be competing in the Grand Prix _now!_

“You can’t be fucking serious?!”

“There’s absolutely no way I’m letting you compete with a sprained ankle, so unless you magically grow a new one until the weekend, the Grand Prix is over for you! If you’re lucky, you can compete in the Nationals.”

A hand falls onto his shoulder, and Yuri sees red. “Yuri, this isn’t the end of the world. You can still – ”

“Don’t fucking _patronize_ me, Viktor!” Yuri slaps his hand away. Viktor looks shocked and hurt for a second, before he settles his expression into a stony mask.

“Fine, have it your way.” For the first time since Barcelona, there is ice in his voice when addressing Yuri, and he can feel his insides shake.

_I need to get the hell out of here._

Without another word, Yuri gathers his crutches and heads for the door.

“You can’t walk home on those!” Yakov exclaims, but Yuri just flips him off as best he can with both hands on plastic. The door falls closed behind him with a bang.

. . .

The air back at Lilia’s place is… tense, when he takes a cab back after spending half the day outside in a nearby park to cool off. Lilia’s deep frown tells him Yakov has already informed her of everything, but she keeps her lips puckered and closed and somehow that feels worse.

The silence during dinner is thick enough to cut with a knife. He can feel Yakov and Lilia exchanging glances over his head while Yuri nudges the food on his plate listlessly, his crutches set at the table edge next to him. He finally gets fed up with it and stands up.

“Yurachka…”

At least the nickname is back, but he still doesn’t give Yakov the satisfaction of returning his gaze. “I’m not hungry,” he mumbles petulantly before grabbing an ice pack from the freezer and heading upstairs to his room.

Lying on his bed, Yuri scrolls through his Instagram feed almost angrily.

He wonders what his followers will say once the knowledge that he’s dropped out of this year’s GP series goes public. He wonders what _Beka_ will say. He’d been really looking forward to seeing his friend at the Finals. Now – he doesn’t even know if he still wants to go. Viktor will be competing (and naturally, placing), and so will Katsudon, and Mila and her girlfriend Sara and – a nice, big, warm family reunion.

The thought makes Yuri want to hurl.

_They can have their stupid-ass reunion without me, for all I care._

The hours pass, and Yuri remains in a strange state of restlessness counter-acted by the pain medication in his blood stream. Slowly, he can feel it wearing off, and when not even cute cat videos can distract him anymore, he pushes himself up to take another pill.

His eyes fall on his phone where he left it on the covers.

Neither Viktor nor Yuuri messaged him.

Viktor, he can understand. He really upset the man this time. And okay, maybe he was being kind of an asshole… but for some reason, the fact that not even Yuuri asked him if he was alright makes him strangely sad.

Yuri glances at the clock, which reads 21:51.

He sighs.

. . .

_(knock-knock.)_

The door opens to Viktor’s slightly rumpled-looking face. He’s changed out of his practice clothes, but hasn’t gotten into his sleepwear yet. His eyes widen slightly in surprise at the sight of Yuri at his doorstep, slightly out of breath from limping all the way there, but he remains silent, waiting expectantly. _Ugh._

“I’m… sorry,” Yuri mumbles, head turned down but forcing himself to hold eye contact. His fingers drum against the plastic of the crutches. “For what I said earlier.” He wants to say more, but the words get lost somewhere on the way to his lips, so he snaps his jaws closed uselessly.

Yuri drops his gaze to the side, waiting for the verdict; but then there’s a sigh, and the sound of the door creaking open wider.

“It’s alright,” Viktor says and steps aside, letting him in. Yuri tries not to let his relief show too obviously on his face.

He barely has time to notice the light coming from the living room when he’s suddenly engulfed by a hug from behind, crutches and all. Viktor doesn’t say anything, but after a second, Yuri relaxes into the embrace.

This is what he’s been craving, Yuri realizes with a jolt; ever since he got the news that the GP was over for him. For someone to just take him into their arms for a moment. But then Yakov came at him in the wrong way, and Yuri in his anger lashed out instead – his usual method of protection; and it all just went south from there.

It is then that Yuuri turns around the corner.

“Yurio!” There’s a soft smile on his face, and Yuri doesn’t know whether it’s due to his presence or the fact that he and Viktor seem to have made up. Possibly both. “We were just watching a movie, would you like to join us?” he asks without preamble, completely forgoing Yuri’s obvious predicament.

Yuri ends up squished between Yuuri and the arm of the couch, iced ankle on a stool, with Viktor on Yuuri’s other side. Neither addresses the obvious elephant in the room as they watch some kind of action flick, not that Yuri minds. Makkachin waddles over from her cushion when she sees him and lays her curly head on his lap, demanding pets.

His ankle still stings lightly, especially after straining it during the walk here, but the couch is soft, and Yuuri warm against his side. _This… this is alright._

Viktor reaches an almost empty bowl of popcorn across Yuuri’s lap towards him, and remembering the man’s gasp earlier when Yakov mentioned his weight, Yuri shoves his hand in dutifully.

. . .

Despite apologizing to Viktor, things remain strained between Yakov, Lilia and him. Yuri is still mad at Yakov, even if he knows that anger is misdirected. There’s just such a large pit of shame and frustration inside him, at his failure to qualify, at his stupid body, at the fact that he’s been banned from the ice for two whole weeks and will have to take things slow even once he’s back. He snaps at his trainers a lot, and they don’t take any of his crap, even if they do understand where he’s coming from. Thank god he doesn’t have reason to be around them a lot.

Yuri becomes restless quickly, unsure what to do with all the free time. He ends up at Viktor and Yuuri’s place a lot. They give him space when he needs it, and manage to remain gentle and patient even when he spreads his negative cheer all around the apartment.

“…equals three ex squared plus four, divided by the square root of – ugh!” Yuri throws his math textbook across the living room, startling Makkachin who comes waddling over to his side and lolls her tongue in question, head tilted adorably.

Yuri sticks out his own tongue in return and slides down from the couch to pet her, waiting for the other two to come back from practice.

The worst part, however, is watching everyone else give their best at the qualifiers from the sidelines.

Yuri doesn’t come with, instead watches the competitions on a shitty lifestream curled up on his bed with Nika, feeling entirely left out. It’s like he’s falling further and further behind with no chance to ever catch up again, even when he does eventually get back on the ice with grim orders to go easy on the jumps. Viktor and Yuuri don’t treat him any differently, but it still stings, seeing the two breeze through their qualifying competitions easily.

He tries to distract himself by filling the hole in his bank account through sucking up to sponsors and modelling for stupid sports drink ads.

. . .

_“The scores, please, for Seung-gil Lee of South Korea…”_

Yuuri wins gold at the Finals, with Viktor closely behind him and Otabek in surprising third place, finally throwing JJ off the podium.

Yuri knows because he’s sitting in the audience, following the event from under the safety of his dark hoodie. He sticks to the shadows, not wanting for a reporter to catch sight of him and demand an interview about his lack of a presence on the ice that day; but after long consideration he’d decided he didn’t want to miss out on seeing Otabek once again.

He watches his friend as he climbs the steps and accepts his medal gratefully. Yuri knows how much this means to him, to bring honor to his country, to be able to wave the Kazakh flag behind his back, and forces himself to concentrate on that instead of the happy couple exchanging lovesick eyefuls to Beka’s right.

The bitter taste in Yuri’s mouth tells him he’s only somewhat successful.

One day later, Otabek gives a long look at the dark shadows under Yuri’s eyes, partially hidden by his wavy hair, before giving him a tight hug and telling him to text or call if he needs him. Yuri breathes in the scent of his leatherjacket deeply. Then Beka boards his plane and is gone.

. . .

Viktor and Yuuri are going to get married once the season is over.

Or so Yuri overheard while listening in on the press conference; not like they deemed it important enough to tell him themselves. A summer wedding in Hasetsu, and isn’t that just… fucking _beautiful_?!

_They’re gonna have their shitty beautiful wedding and be married idiots in marital luck after a stupid perfect honeymoon and go play house and adopt a shitton of poodles while forgetting about the rest of the world and I –_

_…I’m not even gonna be giving them any challenge their last competitive season._

Yuri’s body is gonna fail him completely, and he will slowly fade out of the world of figure skating, forgotten by most and remembered as ‘that one kid who won gold in their senior debut once, but didn’t really do much else’ by some.

It makes a cold panic creep up Yuri’s throat.

He throws himself into training more than ever, now that his ankle is finally healed again, and starts controlling his body as much as he can.

_Eat less and less, train more and more, jog and work out until your muscles scream and your feet drip bloody from blisters. Let Lilia take you apart at the barre, then put yourself back together, piece by painful piece._

Yuri isn’t stupid. He knows he needs his muscles to function, and that his muscles in turn need protein; so that’s what he gives them: protein shakes and lean meat and fish sometimes, vegetables and a little fruit and fluids to fill up the rest, but anything containing fat or too much sugar moves onto his black list.

The bruises and sores on his feet seem to etch permanently into his skin by the time he finally gets the technical aspects of his free skate down, but it still feels like there’s something missing – the heart of it, the emotion. No matter, he just needs to earn some money. It’ll have to be enough. He knows Nationals won’t bring him that much financially, but doing well and being seen might still open some doors to professional shows and the like for him.

And Viktor and Yuuri?

At times, it feels like the couple doesn’t even realize how much Yuri is struggling, too caught up in each other as they are. At first Yuri thinks it’s due to the wedding announcement, but after another afternoon spent cautiously at their apartment, Yuri finds out they are actually having their very first real row. He knows he should probably say something, get between them, but…

_I’m just… tired. I’ve got my own damn problems._

Not wanting to get caught up in their little domestic any further, Yuri reluctantly heads back to Lilia’s through the biting winter wind, not noticing the concerned eyes following him out the door.

Thoughts keep swirling through Yuri’s mind even as he tries to drown them out with one of Beka’s playlists, head hanging over the side of his bed and a purring Nika on his chest.

He doesn’t want to be reminded of the impending wedding and somehow dreads finding an invite in the mail (or worse, having an envelope pressed into his hands after practice), despite how long it still is till then. He’s not sure where he stands with Lilia and Yakov after all the kinds of things that were said and done, but he doesn’t want to be around Viktor and Yuuri either until they get their shit sorted. He constantly feels cold nowadays, and hungry. There’s unopened bills lying over on his desk.

_And through all that, I still need to get my ass ready for Nationals… fuck, I haven’t even called Grandpa in weeks. He’s probably running out of money by now._

Yuri’s life feels like it’s slowly falling apart around him, and Otabek is his only refuge. He keeps their conversations light and distracting though, not wanting to worry or bother his only friend.

Sitting in his room too chicken to go down and eat together with his trainers makes him agitated, so Yuri finally sneaks out to the rink late in the evening and lets himself in with a key that Yakov gave him after his sixteenth birthday under strict instructions never ever to be stupid enough to skate alone.

So, of course that’s what he does, not even bothering with anything more than the emergency lights.

It doesn’t really strike him _how_ stupid he is being until he screws up his triple axel and goes skidding across the ice on his stomach, two hours and six flawed run-throughs of his routines later. When he regains his breath after a few seconds, he checks over his body for injuries and is relieved to find nothing more than a few bruises and sores, though he knows his little stunt could very easily have ended in a concussion, or his ankle acting up again. His feet twinge when he slumps off the ice and onto the bleachers, where he discovers he has once again bled through his socks after carefully peeling his skates off.

He pushes the shoes away from himself and leans back against the wall, panting. The rink is empty, quiet, echoing. Eerie. All of a sudden, Yuri feels incredibly lonely, like the air is pressing in against him from all sides. The breath catches in his throat.

Yuri swallows, and frantically fishes out his phone.

**Beka?**

His phone stays silent for a minute, and then another. Yuri stares at the screen, feeling his heart pound in his chest, and he just wants for someone to be there, for someone to fucking listen or – or talk to him, distract him, _anything_. He shivers in the cold, clothes soaked through with sweat.

**Yuri?**

The blonde shudders on an exhale and slumps into himself, almost dropping the phone. He knows it must be late in Kazakhstan, and yet here Otabek is, giving Yuri the time of day even when he doesn’t deserve it. A trembling hand pushes the hair out of his eyes as he ponders on what to reply.

What to do?

_Do I act normal? Do I ask him how his training’s going, pretend nothing’s wrong?_

_…or do I tell him I’m sitting in an empty rink after almost braining myself and fucking losing it? Shit…_

Even just thinking it out loud makes Yuri’s breathing pick up dangerously, and he can feel tears prickling at the corners of his eyes.

_Fuck it._

**I… I can’t fucking do this anymore.**

The admission makes the waterworks start spilling, and then Yuri’s gasping for air and he can barely see the screen anymore through his blurry vision as new messages pop up quickly.

**Yuri?!**

**Yura, are you okay?**

**What’s going on?**

When he doesn’t reply, his phone starts ringing with an incoming call, but Yuri ignores it in favor of curling up with his knees pressed against his heaving chest and his arms wrapped around his legs. His hair feathers out in front of him.

The ringing fades back into the silence broken only by his sobs, before a soft _(pling.)_ indicates the arrival of a new message.

**Where are you?**

Yuri sniffles, before typing something through his tears, not really caring if it’s intelligible, and hits send.

**rimnk**

There’s more messages after that, but Yuri can’t. He just can’t. He’s sobbing up a storm by that point, too far gone to even care how pathetic he is acting, curling up like some baby away from prying eyes and crying his eyes out over something he can’t even put into words.

All of it, the stress, the confusion, the pain, it’s finally catching up to him.

He can’t really tell how much time has passed apart from how sore his eyes are feeling, when there’s the sound of a door slamming and footsteps approaching quickly. Yuri curls further into himself.

_Fuck… don’t see me, please don’t see me. Just walk past… Keep going, nothing to see here._

For a second, he has the ridiculous thought that Beka has somehow magicked his self all the way over to St Petersburg in a matter of minutes, that his friend has found a way, as he so often does, to comfort him and be there for Yuri when he needs him, but then he risks a glance over the top of his folded arms and sees two _other_ familiar figures running straight towards him.

“ _Yuri!_ ”

In a few seconds, there are hands all over him, touching him, looking for injuries. “Are you alright? What happened?”

Someone tries to make him lift his head, but Yuri just curls up further, unable to stop crying. Viktor grasps his bloodied feet to pull them towards him, which forces Yuri out of hiding, so he leans forward until his hair forms a protective curtain in front of his face and presses the back of his hand against his mouth to evade the embarrassment of dripping saliva all over himself.

Yuuri sits next to him on the bench and pulls Yuri’s head against his chest. “Shh… let it all out.”

The moment feels precious because Yuri knows that Yuuri isn’t usually quite so touchy, so being cradled securely by him feels like a small wonder. He wishes he had the presence of mind to appreciate it more.

“I can’t… I can’t…” he keeps sobbing like a broken record player, near hysterical, while Yuuri just rubs his back calmly.

Eventually, Viktor carries him to their car outside and Yuri knows the older man probably notices that he’s too light, even for Yuri’s usual litheness. Yuuri sits next to him on the backseat with Yuri’s bag and skates, holding his hand, but Yuri keeps his gaze averted towards the window, unwilling to meet his eyes. He keeps hiccupping softly.

“I can walk myself,” Yuri insists once they reach the apartment and Viktor holds the door to the car open. The cold pavement and remnants of sludgy snow actually feel heavenly against his swollen and injured feet, soaking through the socks. It’s alright, they’re already ruined from the blood anyway.

They all somehow end up on the couch, Viktor on the ground in front of him bandaging his feet with careful fingers and Yuuri next to him, where he presses a hot cup of tea into his hands. He’s close enough to be a comfort, but far enough away to not feel pushy, and Yuri wonders how he always knows exactly what to do.

“Is it because of Nationals? Your routine?” The Japanese asks in that gentle voice of his.

Yuri shrugs. It’s because of many things, but that too, yes.

“You know you can always come to us if you need help, right?”

It sounds slightly like an admonishment, so Yuri feels the need to defend himself, glad his hiccups have finally calmed down. “Seemed like you were… busy.”

His words startle the other two, and then they exchange guilty glances. “Oh, _Yurachka_ …” Viktor says and sits on the couch next to him, and damn if that name doesn’t make him weak in the knees, the way it flows over Viktor’s tongue like honey. Good thing he’s already sitting.

It’s because of that he doesn’t flinch away when Viktor gently directs his gaze towards him with a hand to the side of his face. The long, pale fingers are soft against his skin.

“Never too busy for you,” Viktor says insistently. Yuri drops his eyes until Viktor’s loose hand falls away, stares at the fingers clenched on his lap, glancing over to Yuuri and then Viktor again, not meeting his gaze.

Christ, he feels like such a child; pathetic, weak. But he can’t help himself. Viktor seems to feel his struggle somehow, because suddenly he’s being pulled onto the man’s lap while Yuuri takes his tea cup.

“C’mere, koten’ka…”

Yuri has to fight a blush at the position, but damn if Viktor isn’t comfortable and for some reason he just can’t bring himself to care. He wants to sink into the ground and die from shame, but he’s just so tired and Viktor is warm, and then Yuuri wraps his arm around his waist from the side. He’ll probably regret this in the morning, but for now Yuri is too exhausted to pull up a mask. These two are offering him a lack of judgement for the night and he’s gonna take it while he can.

“What were you fighting about?” Yuri sniffles softly.

There’s quiet for a bit in which Yuri desperately hopes he didn’t just kick the moment they had into the garbage can, but then Yuuri finally speaks up from the side. “We were… discussing our plans for the future. About how much longer each of us will keep skating.”

“I would very much like to participate in another Olympics; Yuuri thinks my joints might not be up for the task anymore.”

“I might’ve… not expressed that in the most constructive way, for which I am sorry.” Yuri feels movement, and sees Yuuri press an apologetic kiss to his fiancé’s cheek from the corner of his eye. His silky hair tickles Yuri’s nose.

“Hm.”

Yuri tries to think of the implications of what he learned, but he’s just too tired and his thoughts keep slipping through his fingers. There’s a sweet, floral scent in his nose, and as he presses closer to Viktor’s neck he realizes it must be some kind of perfume. He likes it.

“We’re sorry if we’ve been ignoring you, koten’ka.”

“Feel free to kick my butt at Mario Kart tomorrow.”

Yuri gives a watery laugh. “As if I needed your permission to do that.”

. . .

It’s like a switch was flipped that night, sometime during the quiet hours when Yuri, Viktor and Yuuri were snuggled up against each other before reluctantly dragging themselves to bed. Like… like they somehow realized what kind of important place Yuri has in their lives, what his happiness means to them; as though they got the sudden epiphany: ‘Baby Kitten is Important’.

He starts spending so much time at the couple’s apartment that he barely even lives at Lilia’s mansion anymore. His cat keeps giving him affronted looks for neglecting her, so at some point he just starts taking Nika with him. She and Makkachin don’t get along at all, but it’s amusing to watch. Usually she ends up curled up high on some kind of surface where Makkachin can’t reach her, eyeing the dog with the look of a queen gazing down at her subjects. It’s ridiculous.

But not quite as ridiculous as when he sees Viktor’s Instagram post.

 _(Yuri and a fluffy, white feline sitting atop the kitchen counter,_  
      _side by side, watching Yuuri with eyes like a hawk as he’s scraping_  
_batter out of a bowl.)_

 **♥** **3.4k likes**

 **v-nikiforov** Looks like we adopted two new kittens! <3-:  
     #arenttheycute? #catstagram #catsofinstagram #Makkasojealous

The comment section is blowing up, and it seems like the Angels are having a field day.

“ _Viktor!!!_ I’m gonna fucking _end_ _you!_ ”

Yuri sleeps on the couch on the nights he stays over, with an extra blanket and pillow always in easy reach in one of the cabinets, but there’s talk about rearranging one of the storage rooms as a guest room for him.

He’s gained some slight weight again, since spending more time again at Viktor and Yuuri’s apartment and the Japanese forcing his cooking on him more often than not – they make sure he eats, whether consciously or unconsciously. The food feels heavy in his stomach, bloating him, but at least he’s no longer too dizzy when standing up too quick.

Which is how he actually manages to finally complete both his routines without mistakes for the first time, five days before Nationals – the latest he has ever been in perfecting his programs. It’s not _la bombe_ , but it’s _something_ , at least, and Yuri knows it’s due to all his own hard work.

_“Who is it that you want to be?”_

_I want to be… someone who is loved, and can love in return. Even if I don’t know yet how to express that._

Yuuri is watching his skating from afar with an odd expression on his face, almost… awestruck. He blushes when Yuri calls him out on it.

“I’m just… happy to see you growing into yourself, Yurio.”

. . .

Yuri somehow manages to scrape into Worlds, barely; getting a good enough score at the Russian Championships that the Figure Skating Federation decides to give him another chance to represent his country.

It’s obvious that Viktor keeps thinking about his approaching retirement more and more; he managed to snag gold somehow but he isn’t getting any younger. Yuri finds him long after the interviews are over, sitting on the floor of the locker rooms with a bottle of champagne and staring at the opposite wall, lost in his own head.

Yuri drops two ice packs next to the old man’s knees before sitting behind him on the bench, legs spread on either side of Viktor so at least he’ll have something better to lean against than the seat’s hard ridge.

It takes Viktor a moment to react, and when he does, he turns to hide his face in the soft flesh of Yuri’s belly, arms wrapped around his waist. Yuri lets him. He slides his fingers into the fine, platinum hair and strokes softly, pretending not to notice the slight trembles against his torso.

This is the real Viktor, the human beneath the Legend.

“Yea. Welcome on the lame-train.”

. . .

(They don’t talk about how contrary to Yuri, Viktor doesn’t have most of his career still ahead of him.

Yuri won’t admit if that thought selfishly makes him feel a little better.)

. . .

It’s too late that evening, after all the festivities, for Viktor to fly over to Japan, so they sleep another night in their shared hotel room.

The next morning, Viktor and Yuri eat breakfast together in silence at the hotel, ignoring the other skaters chattering away. Every once in a while, someone comes up to congratulate Viktor, and he puts on his best smile when he thanks them, eyes remaining distant.

Viktor doesn’t mention the quick note and two packages of pills Yuri left on the older man’s nightstand this morning before heading down to eat; one with painkillers, the other with the anti-nausea medicine Viktor needs for flights and forgot to bring to Chelyabinsk and that Yuri snuck out to buy after the ceremony yesterday. Viktor does catch his gaze though, over the glass of jam that he is putting copious amounts of into his tea, to give Yuri a quiet nod.

Long before noon, Viktor is gone; off to the airport to see Yuuri’s free skate, jet-lagged and tired, but reunited.

Yuri packs his bag alone and heads home to train.

_‘happy birthday. geezer.’_

. . .

He doesn’t have time to join the couple in Hasetsu for New Years, much as he wants to; not with the EC so close and his own skills still teetering on the edge. Yuri visits his grandpa and looks at the pictures Viktor and Yuuri send him to his phone; pretends that it’s enough, that he’s not missing something vital.

. . .

Clearing out the closet somehow becomes priority number one as soon as the two gold medalists plus Yuri return to their home, and before he knows it, he’s got his own room, small as it may be. At first, there’s just a mattress on the floor with a solitary desk light next to it, but over time, the room fills with life. Posters accumulate on the wall, knick-knacks and clothes and a makeshift nightstand, until his bedroom back at Lilia’s functions as barely more than a glorified walk-in closet.

Meanwhile, Yuri’s weight is such an up-and-down. After his cry-fest at the rink last December, he allowed to let Viktor and Yuuri feed him up a bit, and while it did help with the dizziness, it also made his body feel incredibly heavy.

He knows he has three months until Worlds, and Worlds is important. It gives the most money, which he desperately needs if he wants to get himself and his mum and grandpa through the off-season. Money he’s not gonna get if he keeps letting his body control him like this.

Once, just _once_ does Yuri push his finger down his throat with the cold bathroom tiles digging into his knees. The heavy feeling of guilt crushing him the next time Yuuri smiles at him over the rim of his blue glasses, spatula in hand, ensures it remains a one-time thing.

“Did you know syrniki are actually really good for you?”

The scent of fried goodness wafts through the kitchen, churning Yuri’s stomach and mixing with memories of picking fresh raspberries in the fields, his mom’s flowery apron, the feel of her soft hands as they wipe crumbs from his chin.

“Because of all the curd cheese. Lots of protein and little fat; it’s perfect for athletes like us,” Yuuri smiles.

It’s Yuri’s first time in over a dozen years that he’s getting homemade syrniki. He just threw up the day before, and Yuuri is standing here calmly, making him syrniki because he thinks it will remind him of his grandfather and because they’re healthy.

He prays to god Yuuri doesn’t see his eyes watering up when he turns to set the table.

. . .

So, no. Rather than purging himself of the extra calories, Yuri tries to eat little and trains hard while hiding it from Viktor and Yuuri as best he can. It works, at least in the way that he hasn’t had a new growth spurt in two months and is slowly starting to relearn the movements of his own body, how far it can bend, the way his limbs fly when he soars through a triple flip.

Strands of hair have slipped from his high bun, and Yuri angrily takes out his hairband, reties it. The tresses are almost reaching past his shoulder blades by now.

“About your quadruple toe loop…” Viktor starts as he skates over to him.

Loath as he is to admit it, the older Russian does give him some valuable tips about how to adjust to his changed body, correcting his stance with a few casual touches. It shows that even though he might have hardly any experience as a coach, skating competitively for almost two decades does give Viktor quite a head start of experience and Yuri is painfully reminded that every skater went through the same thing, once.

“There you go. Now try again.”

. . .

By the time the European Championships role around, Yuri is actually feeling a little more confident in his ability to medal (or at the very least, _not_ make a total fool of himself).

The only moment of panic happens when suddenly, ten minutes before he is about to take to the ice, his intricate braid loosens, trailing down the elegant black and white of his SP costume like a bunch of wet noodles.

“ _Lilia!!_ ”

Where the hell did that woman go?! Yakov tuts around frazzledly, but he’s utterly useless when it comes to hair and Yuri doesn’t have a mirror on him, no time to head back to the changing rooms and fix it – but then out of nowhere, Viktor grabs him by the shoulder and steers him to a nearby bench, settling in behind him.

Yuri thinks he can hear a camera or two flashing, but he’s not sure because in the next second, long, slender fingers are carding through his hair and Yuri’s breath catches.

“Let’s see; one large braid down the side, and the other one above it on the other, both ending in a small bun on top, right?” he murmurs, close to his ear, and Yuri nods, swallows.

Viktor must have a good memory day, because he can’t have had time to look at Yuri’s hairdo more than a few minutes before now. Yuri’s heart is pounding in his throat, and he tells himself it’s just the adrenaline from having a mishap so close to being on the ice, and not the way Viktor’s fingertips are scraping over his scalp as they gather his hair and part it carefully. He’d almost forgotten about the fact that Viktor used to braid his own hair all the time, back when it was long. It feels like half a lifetime ago.

“There you go, tiger. Good as new.” Viktor’s hands linger for a moment longer, as though hesitant to break the contact, but then the voice of the announcer sounds over the speakers and they break apart with a jump.

“I’ll crush you,” Yuri says and punches Viktor in the shoulder, hoping against hope to break the awkward moment. Viktor just smiles at him.

. . .

“It’s getting late…” Yuuri mumbles, gnawing on his lower lip.

The quiet in the apartment is only interrupted by the measured snores coming from Makkachin and the tap of Yuri’s fingers against the screen. He glances at the numbers at the top right of it – 23:41. Late enough, Yuri decides, and stands up.

“I’m getting him.” He can see Yuuri open his mouth in question, but cuts him off. “Stay here.” Then he’s out the door.

The wind is icy and biting, so Yuri wraps his coat tighter around him and adjusts his scarf. He opts to walk rather than taking a cab so he can check at the cemetery on the way there, but as expected, it’s vacated by now.

Yuri knows Viktor’s habits, and predictably hunts the man down at his usual bar fifteen minutes later, where he’s predictably hanging off a bar stool three sheets to the wind.

(Usual for the occasion – he’s never visited it with Yuuri, like it might taint the ritual, yet the barkeep still recognizes Yuri from the previous year and waves him over; and what a nice fourth-of-February-tradition that is.)

He drags Viktor back home to a worried Yuuri and onto the bed, where they work in silence to pull off Viktor’s shoes and coat to get him comfortable and under the sheets. The man curls up and is asleep within seconds.

The air smells of vodka (Viktor) and smoke (not Viktor, just the environment he spent the last few hours in), and Yuri hates it. Viktor’s not a _bad_ drunk per se, more of a ridiculous drunk, really, not like… but he still doesn’t like it, being around drunk people, even if he understands the reasons in this particular case.

They sit in silence for a minute, and Yuri’s surprised the Japanese isn’t yet overflowing with questions about where his boyfriend went, what’s wrong with him. Instead, and that’s an even bigger surprise, Yuuri looks at him closely before asking, “Are you okay?” and then it just tumbles out of him.

How his dad had anger issues and after having bad luck as a broker turned into a good-for-nothing drunkard who didn’t support his ‘silly, useless dancing that’s just for girls and faggots’, how his mum followed suit after the bastard left, caring for her liquor more than for her son. How he has seen what alcohol does to people.

“I’m sorry,” Yuuri says and hugs his shoulders.

“It’s alright,” he replies. “Not your fault I’ve got a messed up family.” And then, he explains about Viktor’s. About the accident his mum had on the cold, icy roads rushing on the way to one of Viktor’s performances when he was young, and he decidedly doesn’t think about the parallels in their two stories.

(Both of their mothers, lost to them too soon – one because she loved her son too little, the other too much.)

But Yuuri stops him with a light squeeze. “I get it now. I think… I want Viktor to tell me more about it when he’s ready,” and Yuri nods in understanding.

They sit in silence for a while, watching Viktor snore away, and Yuri’s gaze keeps getting drawn to the ravenette’s hair. He’s been letting it grow out, to the point where the soft tresses almost reach his shoulder, and for some reason, Yuri just wants to bury his twitching hands in them. Ever since having Viktor redo his braids at the EC, he’s been reminded of the fact that he’s never been close enough to someone to want to share that ritual together… until now.

Yuuri notices his shy looks and asks him about it.

“It’s gotten long,” he explains, and Yuuri runs a self-conscious hand through the black, shiny strands.

“Oh… right. Maybe I should get it cut again.”

“Don’t!” The exclamation slips out before he can stop it. “I like it long…” he says with a blush, and he suddenly feels like an idiot. Katsudon’s shy smile gives him the courage to ask the next question. “Can… can I braid it?”

He almost wants to take the words back, but instead stands his ground. Yuri’s just wanted to touch the Japanese’s hair for _so_ long, and he’s not gonna back down now, even if his red face feels like it’s about to explode.

Yuuri is shocked into silence for a moment, but then nods, almost too enthusiastically, and turns around to give Yuri access while taking off his glasses. Yuri carefully starts braiding, then does the other side after he’s done. The thick, straight hair is a dream to braid, even though the texture is almost too slick to hold. He would have to use bobby pins to hold them in place… next time. ( _Next time? God, I hope so._ )

Afterwards, his hands fall into his lap a little uselessly, but Yuuri catches them gently by the wrist. He looks at him questioningly.

“I… it’s a little silly, really,” he starts and runs his thumbs down the crease of Yuri’s palms. A shudder jolts down his spine, but he decidedly keeps very, very still.

A look prompts the other to continue.

It’s Yuuri’s turn to blush now, and with all that shaggy hair out of the way, his face is all the more exposed; smooth skin and petite nose and curved jaw all on grand display. “Ever since… you know, there was a move in your old Agape performance, more a choreography element than anything, where you turn around and slide your hands around your head and your back. And I kept thinking… I mean, I know you’re a very head-strong person with even the occasional violent urges of back-kicking people and a potty mouth to go with it,” he laughs, face red, and Yuri doesn’t know whether to feel indignant or pleased, “but at that one move, I just kept thinking… your hands, they looked so – _gentle_ , when you do that.”

And really, his heart has no business beating away in his chest like that as though he’s just skated a full program. He should be mad at Katsudon for saying something sappy like that, but he just feels like doing the opposite. All of a sudden, his crush on the other skater returns full force to the front of his mind and he doesn’t quite know what to do with it.

But he realizes that Katsudon is about to draw back, saying “I’m sorry, that was weird, wasn’t it – “ and he can’t have that, can he, so he flips his hands around and laces their fingers together. He studies the tangle of their hands thoughtfully, his thin and lanky ones in Yuuri’s wider, stronger hands, while pondering how to reply.

There are so many things he could say, but doesn’t. How he both hates and craves that fragility of his limbs, craves what it represents, on the ice, the elegance, the flexibility and air of effortless nonchalance. How he’s scared of letting his body grow any further. How much he admires the strength in Yuuri’s broad shoulders, how he manages to combine force with fluidity in all his movements.

…how Yuuri holding his hands makes him feel so much less uncomfortable, so much more cherished and safe, than he had when that one Angel had groped him and tried to steal a kiss last year.

“Huh,” he mumbles instead and glances away, “it’s… fine. Thanks, I guess.” Was it even meant as a compliment? Yuuri smiles either way, and it’s a smile that could chase away storm clouds.

“Stay the night?” he asks. “It’s late.”

He nods and makes to stand up to head over to the guest room, but the other man surprises him by throwing himself at the blonde and tackling him to the bed.

“Stay~…” he whines, and Christ, what a crybaby –

“Fine! But at least let me get beneath the covers, it’s bloody cold in here,” Yuri grumbles before he can think about what he’s saying.

He tells himself it’s just so that Yuuri will stop whining because he doesn’t want Viktor to wake up and start his drunken ramblings again. That’s all there is to it. Yuuri slips under the comforter first, close to Viktor, then Yuri follows. He’s still in his casual clothes, but really can’t be bothered to change now, even though he’ll regret it in the morning when he feels the jeans marks on his skin. He turns to the bedside table to switch off the light, then burrows back towards the source of heat in the middle of the bed.

He stops just short of cuddling up to the ravenette, not wanting to be seen as too clingy, but then there’s an arm wrapping around his narrow waist and light breath ruffling the hair at the top of his head and he couldn’t stop himself from enjoying the warmth around his freezing body if he’d tried.

He should ask the other if he wouldn’t rather cuddle his boyfriend, but “You’re gonna ruin your braids” is what slips out instead, and Yuuri responds with a sleepy chuckle.

“You’ll just have to redo them in the morning, then.”

. . .

From that point onwards, from when he wakes up in a snug embrace to the sound of quiet whispering and lifts his lids to the sight of two fond gazes (if one of them a little hungover) looking down at him, this new sort of proximity becomes a Thing.

“Yuurii~, stop kicking!”

“That wasn’t me,” Katsudon sputters indignantly.

Yuri burrows further under the blankets, giving Viktor’s legs one last kick where they were cutting off his blood flow before tangling his ankles with Yuuri’s instead. “Shut up, both of you.”

He spends most of his free time over at their place, sometimes even sleeping in the same bed soaking up the heat like a greedy sponge, and they never seem to mind. He gets used to their constant, gentle touches and fond gazes; to the way Viktor hugs him from behind when he’s cooking dinner or lays his head on his lap on the couch, to the way Yuuri greets him in the morning with an arm around his shoulder and soft kiss against his hair.

To Yuri, these touches become something cherished; kept secret and safe away from the looks of their other rink mates and friends.

Through spending so much time around the pair, Yuri learns facts about their routines he’d never even realized before. He knew Yuuri drank a lot of coffee, but he hadn’t known the Japanese skater needed at least a gallon of it before breakfast to be able to properly function at all. Viktor on the other hand is a morning person, up with the sun and chipper than a fucking chipmunk and preferring tea over coffee when given the choice.

Yuri finds out that Viktor uses a heady, expensive cologne when out and about or at official stuff, yet sticks to something more floral when he’s just around the house. Yuuri one hundred percent supports this habit and occasionally supplies him with new perfumes on special occasions.

Yuuri bakes cakes when he’s feeling anxious or bored or has to think something through, and Viktor with his undying sweet tooth doesn’t really mind much at all.

Viktor wants to feel useful, and he’s best at expressing himself through touch. It’s like the only channel he feels completely confident at, and which he falls back on when he doesn’t know how else to get his feelings across. He likes making others feel good, like when he’s rubbing Yuuri’s shoulders or massaging Yuri’s sore feet. He likes caring for the people he cares about, and Yuri finds himself stunned to be among that group.

Sometimes they look at him a little weird; fond, yet hesitant, as though they’re waiting for… something, only Yuri doesn’t know _what_. But when he catches them, they snap their mouths closed and distract him from it. Yuri decides to leave them be.

However, with this new proximity, it’s only a matter of time before Viktor and Yuuri notice his returned unhealthy eating habits. It happens one day when Yuri is hanging out on the couch leaned against Viktor, whose arm is comfortably slung over his waist, just reading; trying to relax after a long day of practice at the rink and Lilia’s studio. Viktor’s fingers are trailing softly over the cloth of his t-shirt, then suddenly halt. Yuri freezes.

The hand slips upward, tracing over his rib cage and noticing how little is separating the skin from bone.

“Yura…”

The boy in question huffs and stubbornly keeps his gaze on the phone in his hand.

Viktor sighs, then squeezes Yuri more tightly to his side.

They don’t scold him, at least not with words, but their glances tell him they know what he’s doing and why, and it makes him feel like such a child. (Which he’s _not_ , okay? Sometimes he feels like even more of a grown-up than those two around him, what with their childish antics most of the time. Which is probably why that fact stings so much.)

Viktor and Yuuri are gentle about it, though; in the way that Viktor hands him bandages and wraps when he catches him with his socks off in the locker rooms after practice, and in the way Yuuri slides a plate of food over to him at the table and doesn’t relent until he’s eaten the majority of it. Both a silent reminder to please take care of himself.

He thinks about going jogging after dinner to burn it off, but the two catch him between them and drag him to the living room for an evening of video games. He wants to scratch and yell and scream that he needs to _practice, damnit_ and that Worlds is coming up and he needs to be ready, but if Yuuri can be this relaxed so close to Four Continents maybe that means something, and it _is_ rather warm where he’s settled snug between the other two on the cushions.

. . .

It probably doesn’t hit Yuri until 4CC just _how_ close the three of them have gotten, when it’s not even a question that Yuri comes with the other two to Yuuri’s competition and takes the hotel room next to theirs.

It is then, after a long and exciting day of watching skaters on the ice, witnessing the finest free skates from four different continents, that Yuri’s life will be irrevocably changed.

The moment doesn’t come as he expects it – not that he was expecting it at all.

It’s not while Yuuri dazzles a crowd of a few thousand people on the ice with a masterful performance that takes his breath away. It’s not when he becomes a champion, when a flower-crowned Katsudon climbs his rightful spot on the podium; when he smiles for the whole world to see.

No. It’s later that day, after the ice has gotten cleaned off and resurfaced, hands have been shaken and interviews been held; when their entire group of friends heads out to a bar to celebrate and relax.

Yuuri’s hair is still in the braid Yuri did for him earlier before the competition: slicked back in the front to expose the planes of his face, then pulled back and to the side to curl around his head in a French braid, frozen with hairspray and ends tucked away. There’s glitter on his face, and smudges of eyeliner around his lashes, and then those plump lips pull into a smile at something Phichit just said.

_I want to kiss him._

_…I really, really want to kiss him._

Yuri chokes quietly on his lemonade and immediately turns away, face beet-red. He can feel Viktor’s gaze suddenly on him, Beka’s curious sideways glance as he pats his back, and before he knows it, Yuri mumbles an excuse and flees to the hotel, heart pounding away.

_Oh god. Oh GOD._

_What just happened?!_

He slumps down on his cold bed sheets, panting.

Yuri’s never given much thought to kissing before now. If anything, whenever he saw people exchanging saliva on a television screen, he yelled ‘ _Gross!_ ’ and fought whoever necessary for the remote control to switch programs.

But now…

_I wonder who my first kiss will be with._

The thought makes his eyes widen. He’s sixteen, going on seventeen, and in prime age to start fooling around with people, and yet he’s still terribly, terribly under-experienced. For a second he plays with the thought of asking somebody to teach him the basics.

_But who? I’d probably feel most comfortable around Beka, but he’s already told me he can’t help me with these things. And Mila is…_

_Ugh. Out of the question. There’s no one else I’m really close to._

_Well, except –_

_NO._

Viktor and Yuuri are happily engaged for over a year, and he definitely absolutely shouldn’t be having these thoughts to begin with. And yet, he can’t help but wonder – if it were Yuuri to teach him… if he’d be as gentle and careful as when he taught Yuri that one ballet position he was having trouble with. If his lips would be soft from all the chapstick Viktor forces on him, if Yuuri would rest his hands in Yuri’s hair… He trails his own fingers through the blonde tresses at that, over his scalp, trying to imagine the sensations of not knowing where those hands go next.

Touches his middle and pointer fingers to his lips in mimicry of a kiss.

Unbidden, his mind jumps to Viktor correcting his stance for the toe loop a while ago, hands light on his ribcage and under his leg, and before he can stop himself –

_I wonder what kind of kisser Viktor is?_

_…oh shit._

_I’m not… I’m not into_ Viktor _, am I? Oh god oh god oh god –_

In his panic, Yuri takes out his phone, thinking of only one person who can help him now.

 **Fuck… I think I like them. like… ‘LIKE’ like.** He’ll be surprised if Beka even understands what he means with his nonsense message; takes a moment to curse himself and pray his friend is letting no one look over his shoulder back at the restaurant.

He gets a reply soon enough.

 **Viktor and Yuuri?** Beka tries to clarify.

Yuri doesn’t reply.

. . .

_I want to kiss him._

_I want to kiss them._

_I really – oh fucking STOP already!_

The more he fights against it, the more the thought keeps popping into Yuri’s head, and he’s scared shitless that one day he’s just gonna randomly blurt it out, or worse – act on it. Beka tried to ask him about it one more time, via text, then let the topic rest once it became clear Yuri wasn’t going to reply. Maybe if he keeps ignoring it, Yuri’s brain will just forget about the whole thing.

He’s leaning against the edge of the St Petersburg rink one afternoon, late winter sun shining through the high windows, and suckling on his water bottle. He’s watching Viktor. The older Russian is flying across the ice on one half of it, movements still strong and graceful, even after all this time, hands twirling elegantly at the end of each step. Yuri thinks about those hands, about how they look in the long, fingerless gloves of his costumes, how they felt against his scalp at the European Championships.

Viktor is skating parts of his routine, Yuri can see, but also improvising some new elements; the way he does when he’s working through something in his mind. Yuri can’t help but think the movements express some odd kind of… _longing._

_Is he having trouble with Yuuri, again? Drama in paradise?_

Viktor notices his staring and gives him a smile from between raised arms, and suddenly Yuri feels naked, like Viktor can see right through him. It’s not just his usual ‘oh hello there!’-smile; it’s more guarded somehow, private, almost vulnerable. Like they’re in on some secret, only Yuri has no clue what that is.

He turns away like a scared cat.

. . .

Before he knows it, it’s March again, and with it comes Yuri’s seventeenth birthday. It goes extremely well, and maybe that should have been his first warning sign that soon everything would go crashing catastrophically.

Beka skype-calls him in the morning, Nikolai Plisetsky comes down from Moscow for a surprise visit, they celebrate at the rink, everything is great. Somebody even stuffed the small fridge in the corner with alcohol when Yakov wasn’t looking.

“The kitten has grown so old now! Old, and wise, and mature and gray-haired and – ”

“Pf, Yuri? Mature? In what world?” Mila asks.

Yuri punches her in the arm. “I’ve seen twenty-nine year-olds less mature than me.”

“Mww, ‘u’io! Sho mean!” Viktor whines while trying to tie a party hat on Makkachin’s head using his mouth and one free hand.

( _How the fuck did Makkachin get in here?_ )

“Last night you started crying because you remembered snakes don’t have arms,” Yuuri confides and sneaks an arm around his shoulder.

Viktor spits out the end of string and wails loudly, clinging instead to his boyfriend who grants him an exasperated look and a temple kiss. “They are so helpless!”

Yuri rolls his eyes and takes the glass of cider out of Viktor’s hand, downing it in one go. “Grow up,” he grouses.

And then he overhears Mila talking to Georgi off to the side, and the words hit him like a train to the chest.

“I mean, it’s kind of cute, with their mothering, but don’t they maybe want a little time to themselves too?”

. . .

_“Don’t they want a little – ”_

It’s a multitude of factors that add up.

The World Championships are looming ahead, and while he’ll never admit it openly, Yuri is nervous and run-down and tired. This whole season just seems like a clusterfuck of frustration and failure, looking back, and he didn’t medal nearly as often as he’s come to expect from himself. And what’s more, he can feel the deep ache of growing bones back in his marrows. Yuri would relish the fact that he’s grown to be nearly as tall as Katsudon, if it weren’t constantly trying to mess up his coordination while skating. His body is once again turning against him, and he plain doesn’t have the _time_.

Then there’s how comfortable he’s gotten around Yuuri and Viktor, and they with him.

_“ – kind of cute, with their mothering, but don’t they maybe want a little time to themselves too?”_

And dear gods, is _that_ what this is? Are they… are Katsudon and the old man _adopting him?!_

Somehow, the thought makes Yuri sick.

Here he was, thinking about honest to god _kissing_ his friends, when they probably just saw him as an adorable little cat-son.

_What the fuck am I doing? This is sick, this is sick, this is sick…_

_They’re probably getting annoyed by me constantly being around and just didn’t want to upset me by telling me… Oh shit, I’ve been sleeping in their_ bed _! Was I… was I_ cockblocking _them?!_

And yet –

Yes, he knows the two’s behavior might appear parental to onlookers. But then again…

_They both look out for me and worry about me, yea, but then again the same can be said about me, and they never belittle me for it._

_In fact, they’ve never treated me as anything less than an equal._

There’s an affectionate light in their eyes when he bristles his fur and defends them against some kind of threat; be it Yuuri being whistled after by a drunk pack of Russians, or Viktor against the lamp post he almost runs into in a sleepy daze if not for Yuri’s hand snatching him out of the way. Yuri knows he’s mature for his age ( _had to be_ ), and if he has a lot of missed affection during his life to catch up on, well, Viktor and Yuuri seem more than happy to help him with that.

Yuri just doesn’t get it, plain and simple.

He doesn’t understand what it means when a bed-warm Viktor hugs his waist from behind when he’s standing at the stove making tea and nuzzles into his hair softly, what it means when he falls asleep safe and sound ensconced in Yuuri’s arms on their bed with the older man trailing lazy circles over his bare arm.

Yuri’s seventeen, not stupid. He knows their affections could be seen as romantical, and that those would be weird coming from a twenty-five and twenty-nine year-old towards a boy so much younger, but that’s not what bothers him. He feels safe around them, and right, and they’ve never pushed him into anything he doesn’t want, so he doesn’t mind what it looks like.

No, what bothers him is that _those two are bloody engaged and happy with each other_ , planning on getting married in a few months, so obviously that’s not what’s going on here?!

It’s a multitude of factors that add up, but what does it, what _really_ does it in the end, is a pillow fight gone wrong.

He’s not sure how it starts, exactly – it might be that Viktor, observant for once, has noticed how distant Yuri’s gotten as of late, and tried to bridge that gap, get him out of his shell by having some kind of play-fight. Either way, Yuri is almost starting to forget his worries and finally have some fun again when Yuuri yelling something to the side distracts him and he slips on one of Makka’s chew toys and then the living room tilts sideways followed by a softened _thud_. Viktor, who’s shirt Yuri had just been about to grab, gets dragged down with him.

“ _Oof!_ ”

The first thing Yuri becomes aware of through the flash of vertigo is how he can suddenly feel every complex line of Viktor’s firm body pressed up against him, every muscle, every ridge. Somehow, Viktor’s hand has ended up on an exposed strip of Yuri’s hip just above his waistband in a miscarried attempt to steady him and Yuri’s elbows are on each side of his face, caging Viktor in with his arms and a curtain of wayward flaxen hair.

And yes, that’s where his gaze is drawn next – up, up, and _holy shit we’re close._

_Viktor’s looking at me, and –_

Their mouths are inches from each other, and he can see Viktor’s lips lightly parted, looking so soft, so inviting, and fuck he’s been thinking about this for _weeks_ –

“ _Yurachka…_ ” Viktor gently sweeps a tress of long hair behind his ear while the other hand tightens on his waist and that’s what does it. Gasping, Yuri raises his eyes to Viktor’s, who’s looking right through him with such a complex swirl of emotions in his expression that Yuri freezes.

_Oh shit oh shit oh shit_

Finally ripped from his love-struck stupor, panic surges through him – _Oh god what did I do what did I_ do _?!?_ – and all Yuri knows is that he has to get away, gotta get out before he completely ruins _everything_.

“The _fuck_ , Viktor?!” He pushes up, probably kicking Viktor in the knee in his haste to flee and shoving off Viktor’s fingers like they burned him. “Keep your hands to your damn self!” He has to act angry, good God, he has to make them believe that’s all that’s going through his mind, because the alternative –

“Yuri?” Yuuri asks meekly, still holding a ripped pillow in his hand off to the side. He sounds flabbergasted, like he doesn’t quite understand what just happened, and _boy_ can Yuri empathize.

_Shit, shit, shit…_

_Nothing happened, nothing at all; I just almost kissed your boyfriend…_

He makes the mistake of looking at Viktor, who is still lying in the same position in shock and… _horror?!_ , until the frantic sound of Yuri grabbing his backpack startles him into motion. “Yuri – Yuri, wait! What are you…”

He’s out the door and into the hallway by then, haphazardly slipping through one arm of his animal-print jacket when he remembers Nika. She’s in his room ( _NOT my room, damnit!_ ) where she curled up on his mattress to escape the noise. The feline hisses in protest when he scoops her up with one hand and uses the other to throw open the front door, right before Viktor turns the corner with Yuuri in tow.

“Where are you going?”

 _Now you went and ruined it, Plisetsky, you completely absolutely fucking_ ruined _it they’re never gonna look at you again holy cow could you just – FUCK!!!_

Yuri snaps back at him, “I’m fucking _done_ with this!”

Viktor looks like he got slapped in the face and Yuuri gasps at his words and fuck, he has to get out before he makes this any _worse_ , before he can see how Viktor’s eyes are starting to look suspiciously wet.

He spins around and runs out into the stairway, trying to ignore the way a desperate “Yuri, _please_!” echoing after him chills him to the bones.

It’s raining outside, of fucking course it is. Yuri takes a second to slip his other arms through the jacket, juggling his backpack and a struggling cat, then buries Nika under his hoodie to protect her from the water while he aimlessly jogs into the street.

Yuri’s heart is pounding in his throat, and he feels oh so cold.

He knows he has to get Nika out of the rain soon, that he needs to head over to Lilia’s, but he’s just…

Yuri is just…

Numb.

The downpour at least serves to hide the tears rolling down his face.

. . .

He likes them. He fucking likes them, and he wants to kiss both of them and snuggle up with them on the couch and watch silly soap operas while petting Makkachin and Nika and eating ice cream, and he wants to stay with them forever and have their attention and it hurts because none of these things are ever gonna happen.

Viktor and Yuuri are together, engaged, about to be married, the perfect picture-book couple of the year. They’re _happy_. And even though it shreds his heart into a million tiny pieces, Yuri _wants_ them to be happy, so he’s willing to swallow down those feelings he has for them.

Can they just… please, pretty please, forget this ever happened? Erase that day from their memories?

Yuri moves back in with Lilia, ignores the pair at the rink as best he can even when they frequently try to talk to him before slowly giving up, under the pressure of the approaching competition just as he is. Their rink mates give them curious glances, but Yuri _really_ can’t be bothered anymore by that point.

He doesn’t mean to throw up, he really doesn’t; but when he came back that night with Nika in his arms he suddenly felt sick to his stomach and ended up revisiting his dinner in a locked bathroom. From then on, keeping food down becomes hard.

Yuri’s meals start shrinking again, partly because he needs to be in top shape for worlds (so that he’s not useless, not a failure in the one thing he has left), partly because he just doesn’t have an appetite anymore. Katsudon used to make the best foods, and now everything just tastes bland like cardboard without those two to lighten the mood. Yuri throws himself into training instead and pretends he doesn’t miss his little make-shift bedroom at the end of a cramped hallway.

On the night before the Russian team is leaving for Worlds, instead of packing, he slides down the wall in a corner of his room and quietly shakes apart. Nika strides up to him and licks his hand in silent camaraderie.

. . .

As it turns out, it’s hard staying apart when you share a coach with one of the people you’re trying to stay away from, but somehow Yuri manages to dodge their attempts at conversation anyway. Just as he almost manages to ignore the indecipherable looks Viktor and Yuuri throw him across the distance.

Sheer determination drives him through his short program, and if his interpretation of it tastes a little too much like longing and heartbreak, well, at least it’s getting him points.

It’s towards the end of his free skate when shit hits the fan.

He’s the second to last skater before some guy from France, Viktor and Yuuri somehow already having made good scores, with Yuuri in first place and JJ in third, and Yuri needs to be good if he even wants to place.

Viktor tried talking to him again earlier, just before Yakov and Lilia accompanied him through the curtains, and he’s just too distracted, too frazzled and worked up, hasn’t eaten in a day, has to keep trying to swallow down that damn nervous cough in his throat. Somehow he managed to down the majority of a weird blue sports drink, the first thing he’s drunk in a long while, but he’s _tired_ , and lonely, stomach cramping together uncomfortably; and at the triple of his last combination he miscalculates spectacularly, jumping leg not pushing with enough force against the ice and before he knows it, there’s pain exploding all across his skull.

There’s probably a bazillion things he could take note of – the similarity to his last GPF, a different jump, yet a fall so close to winning all the same; the way the impact of his head against the barriers mirrors Katsudon’s mishap in China two years ago almost one-to-one, only this time it’s not his nose but his temple which took the brunt; the way the crowd gives a collective gasp, and far off to the side, two voices in particular standing out amongst the screams (“ _– Yuri!!_ ”); the smear of blood he leaves behind in his peripheral.

But all Yuri can really pay attention to right now is ‘ _Don’t throw up. Keep going. Keep going. Finish this_.’

It’s only one nausea-inducing spin combination left, one short step sequence while his vision keeps flickering in and out, going by muscle memory and pure adrenaline alone because fuck it if he knows which direction the ice is anymore, his head is _killing him_ sweet Christ have mercy, he can’t – pushes through, a last elegant (who is he kidding, everything’s cramping up) movement of his arms and he comes to a stop in his finishing pose, chest heaving, ears ringing. Body swaying.

The lights are swimming blindingly above his head and he can feel blood trickling down his brow, into his eyes.

One second, two… he doesn’t know if he held the pose long enough by the time he crumbles to his knees, instinct pushing his arms out for balance against the ice just in case it’s not enough and he has to stand up again to greet the audience, though who is he kidding, that’s ridiculous, it’s over, it’s over, and he throws up bile on the floor before passing out.

. . .

He comes to, briefly, in snatches; to the sight of blurry shapes moving above his head, sounds, voices, screaming in the distance. He’s cold. Yuri is so cold, he can barely feel his numb fingertips and tingling lips and he wonders vaguely if the ice has soaked through his costume yet, through his glorious ridiculous tree, but mostly he just can’t bring himself to care.

More voices reach his ear, the timbre of them concerned and frantic, and he’d probably be more worried about what all the fuss meant if he wasn’t so tired, if he didn’t feel so indifferent. The blood stings in his eyes and mats his hair, and he wishes he could raise his arm to wipe it off already, but everything feels heavy like lead.

Hands touch him all over, medical jargon floating above his head unheeded –

 _“_ … _shock…”_

_“…dehydration…”_

_“…blood loss…”_

– and he just wants them to shut up so he can sleep.

Then, suddenly, there’s a warm hand on his cold one and fingers curling around his own. The words are lilting and oddly familiar, calming him on a deep level the way few other things can, like the way his grandfather’s deep rumbling had done when he’d hugged a young Yuri to his chest on the old, tattered armchair during thunderstorms.

“ _It’s okay, Yura. It’s alright, you’re gonna be alright. You hear me?_ ”

Oh.

Okay then.

 

 

. . .

. . .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos to you if you made it this far :3 btw, whoever tells me their favorite line(s) shall receive my undying gratitude and a fluffy hug from the kitten ;)


	3. Act 1, Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Whatever the hell it was you three got up to, I expect you to fix it, Vitya. It’s about time you understood your actions have _consequences_.”  
>  “Believe me, Yakov – ”  
> “I don’t want to hear your useless platitudes! Just _look_ at him!”  
>  “…I know. Trust me, I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uni happened. Nuff said.  
> Also, on this week’s episode of ‘Lilo doesn’t know how shit works’: Hospitals.  
> Also, in case it wasn’t clear yet – “italics” is foreign languages being spoken, usually (hopefully) obvious which one by context.  
> ALSO - thank you guys so, so much for all the lovely comments >///<

**Kingdom Locked Up**

**Act 1, Part 3**

 

_(beep.)_

_(beep.)_

_what…_

_(beep.)_

_where…_

“Yuri?”

_(beep.)_

_(beep.)_

Plastic under his nose.

_(beep.)_

 

_Where… where am I…?_

_(beep.)_

Blink.

_White… everything –_

_(beep.)_

Breathe.

Antiseptic.

_“Kid, you know I gotta ask these questions – ” (beep.)_

Can’t move. Goosebumps. “Yuri? Can you hear me…?”

_Why can’t I move?!_

_(beep.)_

_‘if papa catches me – ’_

_(beep.)_

_(beep.)_

Blink. _Whitewhitewhite                (beep.)_

_(beep.)_

“Yuri, shh – ” _(beep.)                 (beep.)_ Bile in his throat.

_(beep.)_

_(beep.)_

_…HELP!_ hands

_Don’t_ – _(beep.)              I can’t_ –                                            STOP! _(beep.)_

_(beep.)(beep.)_

_(beepbeepbeepbeepbeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee)_

Pain in the crook of his elbow.

Impact.

“Yuri – no, shh, it’s okay…”                         Voices.

Breathe. Breathebreathebreathe

Warm. Tight. Warm.

“Shhh…. I’ve got you, it’s okay. You’re alright, Yurio. I’ve got you.”

                                                  _(eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee)_

Blink.

. . .

“Whatever the hell it was you three got up to, I expect you to _fix it_ , Vitya. It’s about time you understood your actions have _consequences_.”

“Believe me, Yakov – ”

“I don’t want to hear your useless platitudes! Just _look_ at him!”

“…I know. Trust me, I know.”

. . .

The needles are back. He can feel the pinpricks under his skin, piercing into his veins.

Hot.

It’s so hot, and uncomfortable, and he tries to move away from the feeling, groaning softly. He’s nauseous, sick at the deep ache pounding through his skull. Cold hands wrap around his bony wrist when he reaches to rip out the intrusions stinging his arms. He struggles against them weakly.

_Let me…_

The words never leave his lips.

“I know you don’t like it, Yurio. Please, just bear with it a little longer…”

“Ngh…”

_Get that damn sting out!_

_Why is it so hot… somebody open a damn window! I gotta get out of here… Why can’t I open my eyes?_

A sigh to his left.

“This isn’t helping. He’s never going to relax here.”

“I know, but Viktor – we can’t risk anything yet, not with how badly he’s doing. We have to listen to the doctors, for now.”

The exertion of fighting those cold hands saps the last of Yuri’s measly strength, and before he knows it, he’s back under.

. . .

It’s so cold.

Cold coldcold damp shiver where –

_Dedushka? I’m scared._

Breath rasping in his throat frantically, sharp coughs rattling lungs.

_Dedushka?_

_Help me, please_ –

“…’dushka?”

Warmth around his hand.

“ _I’m here, Yura. It’s okay. Your grandfather_ – ”

“ _Hurts_ , ‘dushka.”

Clench. Gentle fingers in his hair.

“ _I know. Shh… It’s alright, sweetheart._ ”

. . .

Blink.

Warm, brown eyes catching his over the rim of blue glasses. “Yurio?”

Blink.

A stern, female voice. “I expected better of my prima.” (Sigh.) “…I also expect my prima to recuperate properly.”

Blink.

“ – and I don’t know, you probably don’t care about those kind of things much, but the Angels organized an international event to boost your recovery; fanarts, get-well-wishes, videos, the whole thing. Lots of cute cat pictures. I can show you when you’re better, if you’d like…”

There’s a young man sitting at his bedside, dark hair and deep-set brows, olive skin; somehow, Yuri feels like he should know him. The man sits up slightly, looking at him hopefully when he notices Yuri’s eyes are open. “Yuri? Are you awake?”

Blink.

His throat is dry, and he just can’t get away from that bloody smell of disinfectants and plastic, no matter how much he strains his tired muscles. The scent makes him want to throw up.

Above the incessant beeping, Yuri can hear voices talking over the top of his head.

“…can’t keep him here, not like…”

“Sir, I’m afraid Mr Plisetsky’s condition was quite serious upon his arrival. A concussion is nothing to laugh at. Due to his fever, and the dehydration, it would be unwise to…”

Blink.

More arguing. “…will need constant supervision, and a regular intake of fluids, with the lack of an IV. I am aware Mr Plisetsky is an athlete, yet I have reason to believe – ”

“Yes. Yes, I know. We suspect he has an eating disorder, and it’s recently flared up again due to a certain event. Look, he’ll never be able to get any real rest inside a hospital; I think there’s been some cases of abuse in his childhood connected to that, I’m not sure. But what he needs right now is some peace and quiet, and for us to talk about that event. We can take better care of him at a hotel room – ”

“Mr Nikiforov, as much as I second a calm environment for the patient, we must keep him in observation until we can rest assured there will be no lasting…”

Blink.

“I’m sorry, Mr Katsuki, but visiting hours are – oh, never mind…”

Blink.

A petite, blonde nurse is checking his vitals. Her face lights up when she looks at him, and she notes to someone behind her shoulder with an unfamiliar accent, “Well look who’s awake. It’s a good sign he’s waking so frequently. I don’t think…”

Blink.

A blurry face bent over him. The dark-skinned man with the deep, rumbly voice is back, wrapping a jacket around his shoulders and carefully lifting Yuri into his arms. He should probably protest, but the smell of leather is familiar and anyway, Yuri’s much too tired.

“I’ve got him.”

“…the back exit, there’ll be less of a chance of the press…”

Next thing he knows, Yuri is on a soft, comfy bed, and Beka ( _ah, that’s right_ ) is stroking his face with a torn expression on his handsome face. “I’m sorry I have to leave you, Yura. Viktor and Yuuri will take good care of you.”

Beka turns to talk indistinctly to someone behind his back, presses a kiss to Yuri’s forehead, then he’s gone.

“Get better soon, tiger.”

. . .

He finally comes to, very very slowly on a soft hotel bed and keeps his eyes closed while listening to Viktor and Yuuri talking quietly.

“He hasn’t been eating.”

A sigh. “I know…” Followed by, “We need to talk about this. …all of it. We can’t let it go on like this.”

He doesn’t hear the rest because he’s caught in a coughing fit that makes his head pound. When Yuri opens his eyes, everything is slightly blurry from the tears that have sprung into his eyes, and he feels sick and in pain so he moans pitifully once his breathing is slightly back under control. In the next moment there’s a pill at his lips, followed by a water bottle, and Viktor and Yuuri ask him questions while stroking his hair softly. But the words don’t make it from his ears to his brain, getting lost somewhere in the heat blazing under his temples. He just feels so tired and moving hurts, everything hurts, and then he’s under again.

Over the next indefinite amount of time, Yuri is vaguely aware of someone feeding him stuff, holding his hands, stroking sweaty hair from his forehead; tightening the blankets around his body when he starts shivering. He must’ve really done a number on himself, Yuri thinks. He doesn’t remember ever having felt so weak in his life, apart maybe from that one time he developed pneumonia after his mum forgot him outside in the rain and… well. Dedushka had taken care of him, back then.

The spoonfuls of thin broth and soup at his lips are kind of annoying, though, and Yuri keeps stubbornly trying to turn his head away.

“Sorry, kitten… but you have to eat. It was difficult enough getting you discharged from hospital; we need to make sure you take up enough fluids on your own if you don’t want the IV back.”

He sort of remembers that there was something…

_Something at the back of my head…_

_Am I not forgetting something…?_

_Oh, never mind._

_God, that cold hand against my forehead feels like heaven… I could almost start purring… almost. Purr… what a fucking weird word. Puuurrrrrrr……_

Either way, all those liquids need to _go_ somewhere. More accurately, they go to Yuri’s _very full_ bladder. He notices the pressure the next time he wakes up, soft pink light through the curtains indicating either sunset or sunrise, and not seeing anyone else around stands up to walk over to the narrow side door of the hotel room hopefully connecting to a bathroom.

Or… he would have, if Yuri hadn’t ended up panting dizzily against the bedframe instead, sunk low on his knees.

That’s how Yuuri finds him when he walks into the room. He chastises him a little, then helps Yuri to the bathroom. It’s embarrassing, but Yuuri is surprisingly mature about it. Yuuri’s firm chest is a comfort when he’s allowed to lean against it while doing his business, washing hands afterwards. It’s weird, though, because he knows the Japanese isn’t too big on touching, yet it somehow feels like he’s been in constant contact with Yuri these few days.

Once Yuri gets back into the bed, he feels exhausted, like he just ran a marathon; and the coughing is back. Sleep is already pulling him under again when he can hear Viktor walking through the door.

. . .

His fever breaks sometime during the night.

In the wee hours of the morning, a cold, pale light falling through the curtained hotel windows, Yuri wakes to the sight of Viktor and Yuuri asleep draped over the foot of his bed, careful not to disturb him. He can see the dark circles under their eyes and wonders with a jolt how long those two have been taking care of his sick ass. What day is it, anyway?

His head is still pounding slightly beneath a damp towel and the bandage at his temple, but nowhere near as bad as it was. His throat feels like sandpaper though, so when he sees a half-full glass of water on the bedside table, he reaches for it eagerly and takes a long gulp, careful not to disturb the two lying on his bed. His phone is lying – plugged into a charger – next to the pitcher of water and a few hair ties, and an odd feeling rises in his chest at the thoughtfulness. He only takes a quick moment to check the date (five days past the day of his Free Skate?!) and see that he has like a bazillion messages, but ignores them in favor of quickly tying back his icky, oily hair in a loose bun and then turning to study the two tired men on his covers.

Viktor has his head lying on Yuuri’s stomach, legs awkwardly curled together to take up as little space as possible on the queen sized bed, while Yuuri has one arm flung haphazardly above his head, close to Yuri’s thigh, the other hand entangled with his fiancé’s. Neither of their positions look in the least comfortable.

Yuri doesn’t get it.

After everything he did, the things he yelled at them, after how he ignored them during the past week, why are they still here? Why did they take care of him, feed him liquids and change the wet rags on his head, make sure he didn’t choke on his own spit? They could’ve just let him rot in that hospital and caught their scheduled flight back three days ago.

Unable to help himself, Yuri leans forward, loose wisps of hair fluttering past his jaw. He reaches out a shaking hand and traces his fingertips over the milky-soft skin of Viktor’s cheek, over those dark shadows exacerbated by the cold city lights outside. Even exhausted like this, Yuri is mesmerized by the man’s beauty, by the way light eyelashes fan across the pale skin, face relaxed in sleep. A few strands of silver have fallen into his face and tickle Yuri’s fingers, tremble with each soft exhale. Yuuri gives a soft snore off to the side.

_I wish I could wake up to this every morning. To both of them. I wish that, in some world, that were a possibility._

Surprise at the honesty in those words and the ache it causes makes him close his eyes for a moment, so he doesn’t notice when Viktor opens his. He does notice, however, the gentle touch of a hand against his own, still cradling Viktor’s cheekbone.

Yuri jumps with a quick gasp. Viktor’s hand on top of his keeps him from pulling it back, fingers stunningly sleep-warm against his.

“Yura,” Viktor sighs sleepily, and for a second time feels frozen as light green meets sky blue.

He’s missed being looked at like that. There’s so much… everything in Viktor’s gaze, so much sleepy-open emotion, so much… tenderness? But how can that be?

Unbidden, Yuri’s eyes start burning, and he gives a soft hiccup. Viktor’s brow wrinkles in concern at the sound.

“I don’t… get it.”

Viktor gingerly sits up, hands falling away, and settles on his knees. The motion wakes up Yuuri, who joins them slowly once his slumber-addled brain catches up. He blinks repeatedly, but doesn’t move to put on his glasses, apparently seeing well enough at a short distance.

“No, I’d reckon you wouldn’t,” Viktor says, and he sounds kind of… small. Before Yuri can ask what he means, he continues. “…and that’s our fault.”

Their fault? No, but it was Yuri who –

“Yurio…” the Japanese on the other side of the bed starts. His voice is rough from his uncomfortable nap. “We want to tell you that we’re very sorry for how things turned out. We should have been open with you from the very beginning.”

“…huh?”

_Open? Open about what?_

_Oh God… this is the part where they tell me they’ve noticed my stupid crush and gently, but firmly crush my heart into tiny pieces, right?_

Viktor clears his throat. “I don’t… I’m not quite sure where to start explaining.”

“It’s actually quite simple,” Yuuri says in a calm voice, and Yuri’s head swivels to the side where he’s met with the steady gaze of the elder skater. “Yuri… what do you want us to be to you?” He can hear Viktor suck in a quiet breath and wonders what’s so special about that question. “Friends? Fathers? Brothers?”

_And really, that’s what it all boils down to, right?_

“…lovers?”

Yuri gasps, freezing all of a sudden.

“Wh… what…? I don’t… what are you – what the hell are you playing at?!”

Viktor clenches his fists in the sheets where he thinks Yuri doesn’t see it and looks down, but Yuuri doesn’t let himself get sidetracked, continuing in that even, quiet tone. “Are you asking because you find the idea absurd or because you don’t understand why we are offering?”

His mouth is probably standing permanently agape by that point, but Yuri can’t bring himself to care.

He… _what?_

_Maybe I should pinch myself or something._

Yuuri is still waiting for an answer, though, so he tries to pull himself together at least enough for that. “I…” Yuri exhales in a shudder. The other two are sitting patiently, waiting for his answer with baited breath. _Do they… mean it?_ “I don’t… understand.” Then, before Yuuri can continue, he adds, “You two… you already have each other. Why would you even say that…?”

“I’m saying it simply because it’s a possibility. We can understand if that’s not something you’d want, and I hope that, even if that’s the case, we will eventually find back to a place where we can be as we were before.” Yuuri’s hand lifts to rub at his neck nervously. “But… not talking about all this for too long is what got us into this mess in the first place, and we did get the feeling… that you might be interested. Love isn’t a thing that’s restricted to any two people, you know. The more you give, the more you have.”

Yuri frowns, still confused at the concept. Here Yuuri is, randomly offering him anything Yuri ever wished for?! Never in all the years he’d been crushing on the Japanese could he have hoped to have his feelings be reciprocated, so over time Yuri built a heavy carapace around himself, to shield himself from the burning fallout.

Yuuri seems to feel his hesitance, apparently interpreting it correctly and starting in a soft voice. “Yuri… You’re a fantastic ice skater – ” Yuri snorts at the words. “No, you will hear me out. You are a fantastic skater, and the fact that puberty threw a wrench into it this season doesn’t diminish that fact one bit. Few could have powered through that the way you did, and I often wish I had your confidence and perseverance.” He shifts slightly on the mattress. “But more than that, I love how you never let life beat you down.

“I love how much you care about the few people you let into your life. I love how much thought you put into the gifts you give to people rather than buying useless expensive stuff, how you prefer soft, fluffy fabrics for your hoodies on chill-out days and your favorite item to have cat print on are socks.”

Yuri’s breath catches in his throat, eyes growing wider and wider the more Yuuri goes on. When the Japanese slows to a stop, Yuri opens and closes his mouth a few times like a fish, stunned speechless. He turns towards Viktor, unsure what to think.

“What about you?”

_No way is he gonna be okay with this. He loves Yuuri too much to just…_ share _?! Is that how this would work? I don’t even…_

“Well, as always, there’s many a thing I agree on with Yuuri, but…” Viktor starts, then meets Yuri’s gaze head-on. “To put it shortly: I love _you_ , Yura.”

Yuri freezes, unbelieving.

_“I lo-“_

_What._

_How… how can he just say it, like that?_

_Unless…_

Yuri narrows his eyes, frowning, and edges cautiously, “Love me… how?”

“What do you think, Yura?” He can see Viktor’s fingers drumming on the fabric of his pants, the only sign of agitation the otherwise collected man is letting show.

“There’s a difference between loving someone and being… _in_ love,” Yuri tries to clarify, dragging the words from between his lips hesitantly, like someone might pounce on them as soon as they’re out in the open.

“Is there really?” Viktor asks, then sighs, gaze dropping and lashes hiding his beautiful blue eyes from sight. Yuuri’s hand reaches over to rub over his thigh in silent support. “Does it always have to be a clear-cut concept?” Before Yuri has time to argue, the older man continues. “I want to protect you, I want to look after you, and see you grow. I want to feed you Borscht and Piroshky until I can’t feel your ribs anymore through your ridiculously adorable little cat hoodies. I want to teach you quads and cheer you on at competitions until my voice is hoarse and see you win after all your hard work.”

He takes a deep breath and goes on, regarding Yuri from below the messy fringe of his hair, expression open and… _vulnerable_. While Viktor is usually open with his affections, this is the first time Yuri has heard him talk about his feelings like that.

“I want to see you laugh when you’re baking cakes with Yuuri in the kitchen and both getting covered in flour. I want to cuddle with you on the couch and watch you nap with your head on my shoulder. I want to take a thousand pictures of you curled up with Nika and Makka. I want to wake up to see your sleeping face next to Yuuri’s for the rest of my life. But – ”

He breaks off, releasing a puff of air, and the world could’ve stopped around them, Yuri wouldn’t have noticed.

“…but more than all that, I’m scared of pushing you away, Yuri, and I’d rather have you in any way you feel comfortable with than not having you around at all,” Viktor ends his admission in a quiet voice. “You’re important. To both of us.”

There’s silence.

_All of it._

_I…_

A small intake of air. “ _Yurachka…_ ”

He doesn’t feel the tears rolling down his face so much as he suddenly sees them drop into his lap from his peripheral, feels the cold little tickles against his arms. Viktor’s fingers twitch, and for a second Yuri thinks the man will reach out to him, but he doesn’t; and that’s when Yuri realizes –

_Oh._

_He didn’t…_

_All this time, ever since I was lucid, Viktor hasn’t really touched me even once._

_It was Yuuri who helped me to the bathroom, Yuuri who propped me up against him and fed me stuff, Yuuri who… but Viktor is always touchy, so why…?_

A quiet gasp leaves his lips.

_“Keep your hands to your damn self!”_

_…oh, shit._

Viktor isn’t touching him because Yuri _told_ _him not to_.

Viktor, who uses touch like a second language. Or first, even. Viktor, who expresses himself through contact and movement and who is usually as clingy as an octopus with separation anxiety.

_He must be thinking…_

A shudder runs down Yuri’s spine, and before he can even so much as think about it, his hand has darted out and wrapped around Viktor’s tightly. “I’m sorry,” he whispers when Viktor looks at him astonished. “I didn’t mean to… I didn’t mean what I said, back then.”

A confused frown mars Viktor’s brow until it suddenly smooths out in realization. The tentative hope in those blue eyes makes something ugly curl inside Yuri’s stomach, reminding him of the way the man had flinched back when Yuri had hurled those stupid, thrice-damned words at him. Regardless, Viktor remains cautious, regarding him guardedly and keeping his hand in Yuri’s very, very still – not like Yuri can blame him. Beside him, Yuuri is copying his fiancé, waiting for him to continue.

Yuri swallows. Time to own up.

“I didn’t mean to blow up at you, and I don’t… I really don’t mind when you touch me,” he admits, trailing fingers over the soft skin of Viktor’s knuckles hesitantly.

“Then why did you say that?” Yuuri asks from the side, voice carefully neutral.

Yuri chews on his lower lip for a moment, warring with himself, and then reaches out his other hand to lay it on top of Yuuri’s, as well; eyes stubbornly fixed on the bedsheets. He can gouge his heart out, lay it bare, but he doesn’t have to witness the aftermath if he can help it.

“I said it because I thought I had to cover up what I was really feeling.” His voice is nary more than a whisper.

“Which would be?”

“…that I like you. That I want to stay with you two forever and watch stupid action flicks on TV while stuffing ourselves with ice cream. That I want to keep skating with you two forever. But mostly…” His heart is pounding in his chest, a mile a minute. “Mostly when we both fell to the floor, I just really, really wanted to kiss Viktor, and I was scared what he would think if he found out.”

He can hear Viktor make a strangled noise at that, fingers suddenly tangling around Yuri’s, and then his other hand is lifting to cup Yuri’s cheek and raise his chin. Relief is flowing freely through Viktor’s expression when Yuri meets those stunning, blue eyes, when Viktor swipes the pad of his thumb below Yuri’s eye socket to catch the last of his tears.

“So, it’s not because you’re bothered by how much older we are?” he asks, still slightly disbelieving.

Yuri shakes his head, careful not to dislodge the warm touch against his face. Now that he’s no longer deprived of the contact, he realizes how much he missed feeling the older man’s skin against his own.

“Well, I mean… I don’t really give a damn about that, but I’m almost young enough to be your kid. Doesn’t that… bother _you_?”

“There’s 29 year olds less mature than you, as I’ve heard,” Viktor quips with that silly little smile on his face, and to Yuri, nothing could be more beautiful. He gives a watery laugh.

“Yurio,” Yuuri starts, voice surprisingly firm, catching his attention. “This is important, okay? We’re not forcing you into anything, and we’re not trying to convince you to be with us.” Yuri’s eyes widen. “I don’t care about your age, but both of us are anxious as hell about accidentally pushing you into something you don’t really want. This is your choice, and if you say no, we’ll still be here for you as friends or whatever else you need. We’ll even… leave you alone entirely if that’s what you want. Alright?”

_They… they’re really serious about this, aren’t they?_

_And they still don’t get how much I fucking want this?! How I’ve been craving this since before I even realized it myself?_

Viktor nods solemnly at Yuuri’s words before asking, “Yura… will you have us in your life?” and that’s when the waterworks start for real.

“You bloody…” A sob chokes up his throat, water blurring his vision of the two and brow twisting painfully. Damn emotions, always sneaking up at the least opportune moments. “ _You guys stress me the fuck out!_ ” he complains loudly before contradicting himself by grabbing Viktor’s shirt in a fist and pulling him closer, burying himself against the soft fabric of his shirt and reaching out for Yuuri at the side until he gets the hint and sandwiches Yuri between them.

Viktor’s arms worm around his waist and pull him closer immediately, like an instinct, like his body’s natural response is to smother Yuri inside himself and he’d only been waiting for the explicit permission to do so. It makes Yuri’s throat close up to have this back, the piece that has been missing the whole time. Feeling the warmth against his cheek, hearing the steady _ba-thump_ of Viktor’s heart, the familiar smell. Yuuri’s touch is softer, a gentle counterpoint to Viktor’s near-desperation, yet no less welcome. He envelops both his fiancé and the blond in a blanketing hug from the side.

“I demand five sappy-as-fuck ice cream dates at the very _least_ to make up for this,” he sobs into Viktor’s chest and feels the tangle of arms tighten around him in response.

“ _Yura…_ ” And damn if Viktor’s voice doesn’t sound suspiciously watery, as well.

They stay like this for a while, all twisted around each other in a compact bundle, while Yuri hiccups and cries his heart out, all the emotion of the past few days finally catching up.

“But like, can we… can we, maybe… leave out the sex stuff for a while?” he mumbles into Viktor’s shirt through the last of his sniffles when those sobs finally calm down a little. It makes him feel like a bit of a child, but he just doesn’t… want to think of this right now. The other two murmur agreements against his ear, hands stroking over his hair and back soothingly.

Eventually they move into a reclining position, with Yuuri spooning him from behind and Yuri’s face once again buried in Viktor’s chest. He’s noticed that Viktor isn’t wearing one of his usual perfumes, giving way instead to the unique scent belonging only to the man himself.

“So… are you gonna kiss me or what?” He can feel the two startle, probably having thought he’d fallen back asleep.

Viktor’s question rumbles in his chest. “Which one of us?” he asks.

“Both,” Yuri replies, lifting his chin just a little so he can look at his fellow Russian. The genuine smile stretching Yuri’s lips doesn’t quite manage to drag into a smirk. “But… Yuuri first, because I thought about wanting to kiss him first. I mean… if he wants to,” he ends, hesitantly.

“Why don’t you turn around to where I can see you and find out?”

Yuri laughs wetly, quietly, and complies. He can feel Viktor propping himself up on the pillow behind him and laying a reassuring hand on his waist.

Yuuri smiles at him when Yuri turns to face him. “Hello there.” They each regard each other quietly for a while, and Yuri knows he probably looks like a right mess. He can see the other’s lightly slanted eyes flit over Yuri’s white bandage with guilt in his eyes. Yuri gingerly trails his fingers over the dark smudges under them, as if to chase away the expression. Rarely has he seen the brown of his iris this up-close, usually hidden behind glasses; or the petite, Asian nose that Yuri one day wants to smooth a thumb over.

_Later._

Suddenly, Yuri is feeling a bit shy. They’re so damn _close_ , and he can feel Yuuri’s breath fanning in the space between them, but somehow, it doesn’t bother him. He just feels comforted, and a little scared of screwing this up Plisetsky-style.

“So… you thought about kissing me, huh?” Yuuri teases and tangles their legs together. The contact soothes him. “Now when did _that_ start?”

“4CC,” Yuri mumbles, and Viktor makes a triumphant noise behind him.

“I knew it!”

Yuri kicks him with an elbow and revels in his whine, even if the movement dislodged his hand on Yuri’s face. He buries his fingers in the sleek black hair at the nape of Yuuri’s neck, instead; ignoring Viktor’s wayward comment of “See, Yuuri? I _told_ you you were irresistible that night!” at his back.

“Is that so, huh…” Yuuri raises a hand to stroke over Yuri’s cheek gently, carefully. “Anything in particular you were thinking about?”

Well and that’s just _mean_ , but… They’re being open with each other now, right? “I just… I was thinking about how having you teach me that would compare to when you were helping me at ballet.”

“Is it your first kiss?”

He’s not sure how to interpret the tone of voice, so Yuri blushes and tries to bury his face in the pillow. Yuuri decidedly doesn’t let him. “…so what if it is?!” he mumbles, red-faced.

“Nothing. I didn’t have mine until I was twenty-one. I just think it’s… an honor,” Yuuri whispers with a soft smile and rubs their noses together. It’s like he can _feel_ how nervous Yuri is, even though he has absolutely no reason to be nervous. It’s… just his first time letting someone close enough to kiss him in all his seventeen years of life, so what.

He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly.

No biggie.

“Okay?” Yuuri asks, and the blonde nods, hands in Yuuri’s hair slowly pulling the Japanese closer until his vision blurs, while his heart builds up an excited staccato in his chest. And then there is something soft and warm and slightly wet at his lips and Yuri’s eyes slip shut, simply reveling in the feeling, the closeness.

His first kiss is frustratingly short-lived, and Yuri doesn’t quite know how to move, what to do with his hands, how to angle his nose. Neither of them recently brushed their teeth and Yuri’s personal hygiene of the past few days doesn’t extend further than some infrequent sponge-baths; and yet, he wouldn’t exchange it for anything. Yuuri catches his gaze again to look for approval, and when he finds it, he pulls the blonde back in, laying peck after soft peck against his skin, just light little things that keep Yuri from feeling too overwhelmed. Yuuri’s mouth is warm and melds against his, gently teaching him when Yuri’s clumsy lips fumble, unsure how to proceed.

Yuri only notices his eyes have fallen shut again when he can feel his partner moving away, leaving behind moisture and a surprising cold.

“So, how was that?” Yuuri asks with a fond light in his gaze.

_Every bit as good as I thought it’d be._

“…warm.” He immediately turns embarrassed again at the admission, though Yuuri just smiles until the corners at his eyes crinkle and rubs their foreheads against each other contently. Trying to distract from the heartfelt moment, Yuri turns his gaze upward, where Viktor is watching attentively. “Don’t you grin like that, geezer; you’re next!”

His words are meant to lighten the atmosphere, but instead, he observes something small and pained clench in Viktor’s eyes. “Am I?” he asks, making no move to follow after his boyfriend. “…a geezer?”

The smile on his face looks nonchalant, but when taking a closer look – _ohh._ So that’s where his problem lies.

Viktor actually _still_ worries about their age gap?

Yuri has to take a second to remind himself. This isn’t about Viktor thinking Yuri is too young for this. This is about Viktor thinking himself too _old_. And that’s… something Yuri can handle.

He ponders for a moment, then reaches out and playfully ruffles through the man’s platinum hair. “You’re a big fucking baby is what you are, Nikiforov.” He lets his hand slide down to cradle Viktor’s cheek and holds his eyes, trying to express himself without words.

After a moment, Viktor’s gaze softens, and his shoulders relax imperceptibly, leaning into the touch. Yuri can read thankfulness in his expression, and for once the dork doesn’t reply with something ridiculous to the quip. Instead, he leans forward and lets Yuri pull him down by the neck, this time without hesitance. Yuri gratefully sinks into the sensations, Yuuri nosing at his jaw, and all he knows is that he’s very, very warm.

. . .

Despite how Yuri would like to keep kissing Viktor and Yuuri for a while (much) longer, his body makes sure to remind him _thoroughly_ how badly he has been neglecting it, and that he needs _rest_. Regardless how much more relaxed he is after the three of them talking things out, Yuri is still sick, and concussed, and weak. He barely manages to stay awake for five minutes curled up in their arms after his first kisses, falling asleep to the first soft rays of morning light peeking past the curtains.

He wakes sometime past noon to the sound of Viktor bustling about the hotel and Yuuri handing him a carton of orange juice, which Yuri sips at dutifully while the elder starts filling him in on what he missed.

“You caused quite a stir with your little accident. Everyone was really worried. We’ve been in contact with your grandpa to keep him up to date – he wanted to fly down here, but as you might know he caught a bad cold a few days ago. We told him we’d bring you back to St. Petersburg once you’re better and he can come visit as soon as he’s able to. Ah – and you might want to get in touch with Beka. He wanted to stay and help out, but his family needed him back home. He’s been demanding hourly updates.”

Yuri gasps and reaches for his phone immediately.

_That’s right – I think I remember Beka being around when I was really sick with fever. He… carried me here? God, he must’ve been so worried._

_I have so much to tell him, though._

He unlocks the screen, gaze once again falling onto the multitude of social media icons demanding his attention with unread messages. It’s not an unusual sight, after a competition.

_Although usually, it’s people congratulating me on my – wait._

_Oh shit._

Yuri sucks in air between clenched teeth, eyes widening.

“Yurio? What is it?”

“What place?” Yuri near-screams, hitting his browser icon near frantically and cursing when it takes longer to load than he has the patience for.

_I know I screwed up at the end, but I finished the program, right? I finished it, and the short went well, even if some things were shaky in the free ‘cause I was running on nothing but fumes…_

Yuuri catches on immediately. “Yuri… You did so well after that accident, I can’t believe you managed to keep going after getting such a bad concussion and basically bleeding out all over the ice, everyone expected you to – ”

“Katsudon, _what bloody place_?!” he interrupts the man’s nervous rambling, finally giving up on his slow wi-fi. He doesn’t care if he’s rude. This is –

“…you got fifth, Yuri, which is still amazing considering everything, really,” Yuuri tries to amend. Viktor has wandered over curiously after hearing the yelling.

 “The skater after you apparently had a pretty weak program overall, though we weren’t around to watch, so I can’t really tell.”

“Fuck.”

Yuri’s head sags against the wall, and he can feel Viktor’s questioning gaze on him. “Yuri?”

Maybe he’s still a little loopy from the pain meds, maybe he’s tired, sore and in pain; maybe he just doesn’t care anymore. But somehow his tongue is looser than usual. “’m broke. I needed that fucking money,” he rasps before his brain can think about the implications, staring up at the ceiling. His heart is still pounding heavily in his chest from the earlier adrenaline.

A quiet gasp from the side draws his attention to the piggy.

“Yuri…” he starts, and damnit, he didn’t sign up for the pity party. Yuri can feel a frown forming on his face. “I didn’t know…”

Surprisingly, Viktor jumps in. “How long?” His eyes are sharp and insistent, clear like the sky as they capture his. He sits down on the bed next to him.

Yuri scoffs, entirely too exhausted to be leading this conversation. “A few years? Since dedushka lost his job? You know my mum’s a good for nothing drunk and deda has a bad back. Money’s always been tight.”

“But… what about sponsoring?” Yuuri asks helplessly.

“Pays for travel, hotel, and coaching fees. New skates if I’m lucky. But off-season’s long.” He closes his eyes tiredly, slumping into the pillows at his back. His temple keeps quietly pounding in time with his heartbeat and Yuri just wants to go the hell back to sleep and pretend none of this ever happened.

But of course, Viktor has to rip him out of his lethargy with his next comment.

“I’ll make sure your mom is taken care of.”

Yuri knows it’s a futile protest – once Viktor sets his mind on throwing his money at something or someone, it’s a lost battle – but he doesn’t want to appear weaker than he has already let himself. “The fuck you will,” bursts out of him on reflex.

_This is probably a part of the whole relationship-whatever, supporting each other and being all lovey-dovey and shit but – no. This is all still totally new, and I’m not gonna just… change overnight because of this._

“It won’t be any trouble for me to support her a little financially; it’s not a burden you should have had to shoulder in the first place.” And well, _yes_ , but _shut up_. “Your grandfather as well.”

“Shut it, old man. I don’t need your charity.”

Viktor looks at him sadly, and Yuri can’t _stand it_. He expects the silver haired man to spout some bullshit about how this isn’t about pity, how he’s just doing it out of the goodness of his heart and no growing boy deserves to have to carry all that weight, yadda yadda… but instead he cards a careful hand through Yuri’s hair, cradling his injured temple gently.

“…money is the last thing you should have to worry about right now, Yurachka,” he murmurs, and damn if Yuri isn’t weak for the other using that nickname on him. “Please just focus on getting better.”

His eyes are stinging slightly, and it absolutely only has to do with his injury hurting. It’s completely unrelated to how for the first time, someone’s looking at Yuri’s life and tells him: ‘You’ve been strong for a long time. Now let me take over for a bit.’

_Nope._

. . .

Yuri does, eventually, get around to calling Otabek.

The Kazakh picks up after the second ring, making Yuri feel just the slightest bit guilty. The other had been worried sick after seeing the kind of condition he had been in, and it takes Yuri a good while to convince him that he’s doing better; still recuperating, but doing okay for now. And that, yes, he did talk things out with Viktor and Yuuri – “I’ll… tell you later, alright?”

They end the call with promises to keep in touch when Yuri starts yawning every two seconds so he still has some energy left to call and reassure his grandfather before falling back asleep.

Apparently, or so the two older skaters fill him in later, Yuri’s concussion coupled with the dehydration and general neglect of his body had caused him to fall quite ill, resulting in a fever and slight cough which didn’t do much in terms of helping with the recovery of his head injury.

However, despite feeling weak and sick and sleeping a lot, things have also suddenly improved drastically, because he now has two space heaters willing to cuddle him to their chests whenever he asks for it, and the tension that has been hanging in the air between them for so long has drained out, leaving behind contentment, giddy excitement and…

_Well, it’s weird, but… suddenly, I’m looking forward to the future, rather than just dreading what’s gonna happen next._

_I’m… excited. Things are strange and new, but I like the kissing, and that I don’t have to feel guilty anymore._

They stay at the hotel a few days longer, long enough for Yuri to gather enough strength to fly back to Russia – which thankfully is a short enough flight from Finland. Over time, Yuri slowly catches up on his social media, posting a quick selfie of his sleepy, tousled person on Instagram and reassuring his followers that he’s on the mend (igniting, naturally, a storm of comments and well-wishes from Angels and non-Angels alike).

Everyone was in an uproar after his accident – they hardly managed to call for order at the rink so that the last skater was able to skate his program. No one really cared anymore about the results, still too shocked by the sight of so much blood on the ice. Rumors popped up when it became clear that Viktor and Yuuri wouldn’t be present for the winner’s ceremony, about how they had probably followed the ambulance to the hospital. It prompts Yuri to look up Viktor’s recent Instagram feed, which has been strangely empty as of late except for one solitary post.

_(Plain black dress shoes and the dark blue pants_ _of  
_ _Viktor’s free skate costume above clean, white tiles.)_

**♥**   **10.6k likes**

**v-nikiforov** He’s gonna be okay  
     #Worlds2017 #Helsinki

     _(view all 1640_ _comments)  
     posted 4 days ago._

Strangely enough, Yuri reads in a news article that JJ had opted to forgo the ceremony as well, in a show of solidarity.

He finds out that Yakov and Lilia had to fly back to St. Petersburg a few days ago while Yuri was still in hospital, to look after their other mentees; though they too seem relieved when Yuri contacts them in person to let them know he’s still alive. Yuuri earned his second Gold at Worlds, with Viktor close behind, though neither of them seem adequately enthusiastic about having pushed JJ down to Bronze in Yuri’s opinion. Pity Otabek didn’t make the podium this time, though then again Yuri had been too out of it the entire competition to properly appreciate the man’s routine anyway.

He vows to himself to make up for that soon.

Next to cuddles and sleep, personal hygiene is a thing high up on Yuri’s priority list. He feels utterly disgusting after sweating with fever for several days, and while he vaguely remembers a nurse giving him a sponge-bath daily (thank God he was too out of it to be embarrassed), his hair keeps sticking uncomfortably to his skin in that icky, greasy way and he’s sure he must smell at least a fair bit, which is an absolute No Go for snuggle times.

_They haven’t complained so far, but… ugh. I bet they’re just being nice and accommodating. I’d feel so much better being clean and bundled up in some fresh clothes._

It takes a little needling, since Yuuri and Viktor think him still too shaky to brave the shower on his own, but eventually he convinces them to at least let him brush his teeth and try a bath. It’s a bit awkward at first when the two help him strip down and step into the tub filled with warm bubbly water, but neither of them mention his nudity or let their gaze stray below shoulder-level. He washes quickly while the two of them fill the silence with mundane talk, then assist him with his hair and dress him in comfortable sweat pants and a shirt once he’s out again.

“Yakov managed to get your suitcase and other stuff out of your old hotel room before he left, so everything you need should be here.”

Taking a bath shouldn’t feel like running a goddamn marathon, yet somehow Yuri can’t keep his stupid legs from trembling when they finally make their way back into the main room. The few meters over to the bed feel like the farthest in his life.

On the way there, his eyes longingly catch on a certain red-and-white item carelessly thrown over an armchair, yet Yuri quickly averts his gaze, rubbing his fingers over his own familiar shirt absently. It’s alright, but…

_I feel like I haven’t been able to warm up in a while now, despite the hot bath._

With a huff, Yuri sinks down on the mattress. Yuuri rubs his shoulder and kisses Viktor’s cheek before heading off to clean up in the bathroom while Viktor towel-dries his hair, then settles in behind him to help Yuri brush the long tresses.

“My, how long it’s grown… almost longer than mine used to be. Did I ever tell you about that time a young Mila accidentally got chewing gum into it? I was in tears, thinking I’d have to cut it all off. Yakov, bless his old soul…”

Yuri relaxes into the moment, of Viktor sharing childhood memories in that deep, soothing voice; his skin is still tingling pleasantly from the bath, and the comb keeps up a steady scratching rhythm against his scalp. He doesn’t even notice when Viktor starts braiding his hair in a simple plait down his back, almost falling asleep cross-legged.

Reality comes back down on him in the form of something strange being wrapped around his shoulders, and when Yuri blinks wearied eyes open, he catches Yuuri withdrawing his arms uncertainly and sees the red and white of Viktor’s Olympic team jacket over his chest, almost dwarfing him in the heavenly soft fabric.

Yuuri’s black hair is almost reaching his chin by now, which coupled with the glasses gives him a nerdy, if slightly adorable look.

Yuri rouses enough to stick his arms through the correct holes and pull the man down for a hard kiss.

Eventually, they all end up in a tangle on the bed, Viktor on one side, Yuuri on the other, and Yuri – lithe, sickly, but clean Yuri, smelling of soap and reveling in the feel of Viktor’s clothing around him, in the middle. Sandwiched safe and warm in a cocoon of reassurance.

After a moment of consideration, he pulls out his phone from under the pillow to snap a photo, and sends it to Otabek.

“Congrats,” Yuri mumbles to Yuuri. “On the Gold. And Silver,” to Viktor.

He gets a sleepy reply. “Thank you.”

“My gorgeous Yuuri is quite something, is he not?” Viktor asks and reaches over the blond to caress Yuuri’s cheek, who leans into the touch trustingly, smile lighting up his face. Yuri watches the display of affection, and for once, it doesn’t make his stomach clench.

“Yea. He definitely is.”

. . .

Unfortunately, not all of it is roses and sunshine. Forcing himself to eat soon becomes Yuri’s least favorite part of the day.

He flops back against the pillows after a bathroom break wearily, hand moving up to rub at his forehead. “Are you in pain again, Yurio?” Yuuri asks, already handing him one of his pills.

“This sucks,” he moans weakly.

He has to eat something with the drug, so Yuuri tries to convince him to have some of the soup Viktor brought up earlier, who is sitting at the other side of the bed and quietly rubbing his thigh through the blankets; but Yuri has absolutely no appetite. If anything, he’s still feeling slightly nauseous.

The other two beg him to eat anyway. “You’re far too thin and need to regain your strength.” Viktor seems to hesitate. “Yura – if there’s anything you’d like to talk about – ”

Yuri bristles. “I’m fine!”

He’s fully expecting to defend himself, but then Viktor pleads with him, sounding stricken. “Yura… please. Watching you the past week, seeing you running yourself into the ground and knowing it was my fault – that was the worst.”

“Idiot… I’m the one who freaked out and ran away, damnit!” Yuri mumbles sheepishly, protest turning meek. “…so stop blaming yourself.”

He nestles against Viktor’s side, who prods him with the full bowl and spoon. Begrudgingly, Yuri scoops up a bite and lifts it to his lips, wrist shaky from weakness. It’s probably something vaguely pumpkin flavored, but Yuri doesn’t really taste any of it. All he can think of is the goopy chunks sliding to the back of his tongue. He somehow manages to down a few spoonfuls before having to be encouraged by Yuuri tapping his knuckle against the side of Yuri’s cheek.

_I hate this._

_I hate having to eat, I hate having to force myself. I hate being watched during my ordeal, but more than that – I hate putting those worried looks on their faces._

“Is there anything else we can get you, Yurio? Something you think you might like to eat more? Anything at all,” Yuuri asks him.

Yuri shrugs petulantly, pushing the bowl away after a few more bites and curling into the warmth of Viktor’s neck. He can hear the older man’s heartbeat in his ear like that. “I’m tired,” he murmurs. It’s supposed to be snappish, but instead the words just come out weak and exhausted, like the last gust of air left in his lungs. He just wants to sleep…

His hesitance towards food isn’t completely unfounded. Part of it might be the concussion-induced nausea, and another some deep-set malaise that has settled inside Yuri when he wasn’t looking, but some of the food he does manage to swallow ends up being revisited soon after.

“I wasn’t really able to keep anything down, lately, either,” Yuri admits while Yuuri hands him a mint to get rid of the taste. “I dunno why – it’s not like I don’t _want_ to eat. I’m tired of being dizzy all the time. It’s just… I don’t know.”

Viktor rubs his back soothingly.

Eventually, they start finding out some foods that work for Yuri – he likes nibbling on some crackers while propped up against Viktor and watching some weird foreign show on the little television across the bed to distract himself, or chewing slowly on chocolate bars that Yuuri dug up from a vending machine down the foyer of the hotel. Their sweet, caramel-y taste bursting over his tongue is overwhelming enough that Yuri’s mind can’t really think much about rejecting them, body craving the calories.

The best part though is when Viktor and Yuuri each take up a leg and massage the lean muscles there, to work against the atrophy of spending most of the day in bed; or when they help him over to the couch to watch TV. He almost feels like a normal person again at those times. Seeing the same frame of boring hotel room for days on end was beginning to drive him crazy.

Due to his frequent insomnia in the time leading up to Worlds, Yuri has a lot of sleep to catch up on, but having the other two around (despite feeling slightly guilty for stealing their time) is like a much needed vacation for his battered, weary soul, especially after they kind of sort out the eating thing.

Yuuri is snoring softly behind Viktor, spooning the older Russian protectively, who in turn has his arms wrapped securely around Yuri’s waist and half-lidded eyes watching over him. Yuri reaches out across the small space separating them to pull Viktor’s inviting lips over for a kiss…

…just because he _can._

. . .

~*~*~

. . .

Yuri is lying on the couch in their apartment with an old book Viktor gave him from his time back in Hasetsu, when Viktor and Yuuri return from grocery shopping. They smell like outside and cold, crisp wind.

“ _Invite to there are some completely emergency power,_ ” he greets the pair.

Yuuri ruffles his hair while sitting down. Viktor plops down on his other side, grinning like a fool. "I'm honestly not quite sure if that was supposed to be Japanese or Chinese," Yuuri says.

"Did what I said make sense in any of these languages?" he asks curiously.

Yuuri gives him a level look over the top of his glasses. "No."

"No. Of course not," Yuri deadpans.

The snort just bursts out of him, and then all three of them are giggling hysterically.

“Oh, _Yuri_. Asian linguist extraordinaire,” Viktor quips before diving in to tickle the younger Russian.

“Eek!” he screeches and flails, while Yuuri calmly tries to avoid the flying limbs, bending down to pet Makkachin instead. “Katsudon, control your crazy husband!”

“Not my husband. That’s a good girl, right, Makka baby? Yes you are~.”

Finally, Viktor relents, and Yuri plops down on top of him in retribution. “I am so done with you.”

Viktor squawks indignantly below him before wrapping an arm around his waist. The position is surprisingly comfy, so Yuri snuggles deeper. There’s still something missing, though.

“Yuuuuuri…” He’s gotten surprisingly better at calling the other by his name, even if it’s still hard sometimes. “I need a blanket!”

The Japanese, thick as ever, actually tries to hand him over one of the downy comforters; at least until Yuri grabs him by the arm and pulls him on top of him. Yuuri chuckles. “That kind of blanket, huh?” His eyes glint playfully, inches from Yuri’s, who squeezes Yuuri’s face into his neck in exasperation and groans.

“Why do I even put up with you?”

“Because you love us,” Viktor quips playfully.

Yuri is silent for a moment, head turned into Yuuri’s hair. “Yea… I do,” he murmurs. He can hear Viktor gasp at the admission and Yuuri tighten his arms around him, and he burrows deeper. No need to elaborate on that just yet, he decides.

Viktor gives a content little sigh and hugs his two lovers closer to his chest. “I like this,” he exclaims with his arms full of warm, happy people. Smiling, Yuri finds that he can agree.

 

. . .

. . .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That’s it, we’ve reached the end of act I. The story’s far from over, though – worry not ;) I have two more acts planned, though act III will be mostly an epilogue whereas act II is gonna have three more parts. After all, we have a relationship to explore, a wedding to look forward to, and we all know what’s happening in PyeongChang 2018, right?
> 
> Please don’t expect the next chapter anytime soon, though. Apart from barely having anything written yet but the bare outline, I have a feeling I will be returning to my other ongoing (ffvii) multichap for now, of which people have been waiting for an update for much longer. HOWEVER: if you have specific things you’d like to see in Yuri’s future for this ‘verse, feel free to tell me in the comments! :3 Thank you for sticking with me so far, and please tell me if you liked it!

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is basically all the first season told from Yuri's point of view, as a quick sort of groundwork. Act 1, Part 2 is where all the new, exciting stuff will happen. I've planned for there to be three acts, the first two with three parts each, the last one more as a sort of epilogue or appendix, if you will. The majority of Act 1 is written already; the next two parts just need a lil tightening up :3

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Closest Star](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13160811) by [Tousled_Sky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tousled_Sky/pseuds/Tousled_Sky)




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